And So Death Took
by ICMezzo
Summary: Fairy tales may soothe small children into slumber, but some stories themselves refuse to sleep. The Tale of Three Brothers, retold. Harry/Draco, Hermione/Ron side pairing.


**And So Death Took**

**Warnings: **While nothing is exactly as it seems, some readers may appreciate a warning for MCD (_not_ Harry or Draco), suicide, dark themes, and/or violence.

**Content/Enticements: **EWE, post-war, Ron/Hermione side pairing, _The Tale of Three Brothers_

**Author's Notes: **Originally written for the Dec 2013 HD_Erised fest on Live Journal, and gifted to Knowmefirst. Thanks to my prereaders, Brit-picker, and beta, ArcadianMaggie, Sapphirescribe, TwilightMundi, and Omi_Ohmy. I simply cannot thank them enough for all of the time, energy, and talent they contributed to this story. They went above and beyond, as always, but this time, they outdid themselves.

**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

"There were once three…friends…who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. After a while they reached a deep river—too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across. But these friends knew magic, so they simply waved their wands and a bridge appeared across the treacherous water. They were halfway across when a hooded figure blocked their path.

"Death spoke to them, angry he had been cheated out of three new victims—travellers usually drowned, you see—but Death was cunning; he pretended to congratulate the three friends and offered each a prize for having evaded him."

Harry paused to clear the image of Death from his mind. To him, Death always had slits for nostrils and an utterly ruthless expression on his pale, inhuman face.

And this was the easy part of the story to tell.

He looked down at the sleepy eyes gazing back at him, the young ears listening eagerly even as fatigue began to soften the edges of their consciousness. He knew they'd try to stay awake for the story—while they knew the words of most of Beedle the Bard's other tales nearly by heart, Harry had never told them this one. But he'd heard them discussing the Hallows with their friends, their eyes eager as they imagined the powerful objects, so he'd decided it was finally time.

For them.

For him.

Taking a deep, steadying breath and letting it out slowly, Harry began again.

**I. **

Ron was so angry he was shaking.

Passed over. Again.

He had solved this case. It had been his idea that led to the final arrest, but he didn't get the credit. No, his partner did. Even when Ron deserved the spotlight, he was passed over while it shone on the person by his side.

He glared as his partner was praised by the Head Auror. Congratulated. Promoted for a job well done.

It was never Ron's turn. Maybe it was because his robes were slightly threadbare. Hermione always did her best with the spells, but Ron wagered the other Aurors noticed. It was their job to _notice_. Was he an embarrassment to the Ministry? Or maybe it was because he couldn't always work late because he helped George some evenings with inventory, or because he never joined the others to socialize at The Leaky. The cost of those pints wasn't in his budget, not possible on a junior assistant Auror salary, their only income while Hermione studied to be a lawyer.

He was doing everything he was supposed to, though, and contributing far more than the Ministry ever acknowledged.

They didn't value him at all.

This had been a perfect opportunity for his boss to give him some credit, even the raise or promotion he more than deserved, but the result was the same as always: someone else got the glory while Ronald Weasley looked on.

He deserved better.

Something in him snapped.

He knew where to find what he needed. He'd always known.

A short trip to the far corner of the Hogwarts grounds and he'd be the most powerful wizard in the world. They'd never again be able to pass him over for a promotion. And the glory—everyone would know him, would feel his power. His mum would pay some attention to him, too, for once, instead of bragging to her friends about Percy or fawning over Ginny.

The galleons would pour in. He'd never have to pay for his own drinks at the Leaky again, but if he wanted to, he could. He could pass a hundred shiny coins toward the barkeep without asking for change. He could buy a better ring for Hermione, one with gorgeous jewels instead of the small band of second-hand gold she had now. And they'd have a wedding that would land them on the front page of The _Prophet _.

Sure, Harry trusted him not to, never to. But where was Harry these days anyway? Hiding again, no doubt. Forget standing by Ron's side, supporting him, putting in a good word for him. No, Harry was nowhere to be found. Ron languished in the bowels of the Ministry, doing grunt work as well-paid, highly respected careers flourished all around him.

Not anymore.

He'd had enough; his lot was never going to change unless he changed it himself.

He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. No one even glanced at him as he headed for the door.

The Elder Wand would be his by nightfall.

He hoped Hermione wouldn't mind if he was a late getting home for dinner. He had their lives to change.

**-o0o-**

"Hermione?" Ron called, shutting the door behind him and then hanging up his coat. "Hermione?"

"In here," she called back to him from the kitchen. "I was putting warming spells on your dinner," she said pointedly, as though he didn't already know he was late. But she was smiling as she came out to greet him. "I was going to study, but I can sit with you if you'd like to eat now. I'll grab my notes to look over."

"Nah, I stopped on the way home." He couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. "Listen, I have something important to—"

"You went out? I thought you were working late." Hermione frowned and sniffed the air, her forehead furrowing as her smile disappeared. "Ron…are you drunk?"

"No, Hermione. No." Ron had stopped and had a drink or two, but after his day, he thought he'd deserved the treat. Actually retrieving the Wand had been…unpleasant. Besides, they wouldn't need to worry about money anymore, as soon as he let it be known that the Elder Wand was now his. "If you'll let me expl—"

"Ronald Weasley! You _know_ we can't afford that. Honestly! What were you thinking?"

"We can, though! That's what I'm trying to tell you!"

Hermione stopped short. "We can?" She tilted her head to the side. "Did you...? Were you—you mean, you were finally promoted? Ron, that's great!" She threw herself at him, and he caught her in his arms. "You've worked so hard for this. I can't believe it! Finally!"

"Er."

She froze in his arms. "Er?"

"Not exactly a promotion just yet."

"Not…yet." Hermione let go and stepped back from him, her brow furrowed. "Soon, then?"

"Very," he said, the Wand heavy in his pocket, as though its weight was another manifestation of its value.

"And it's definite?" she asked, the doubt on her face still more visible than he would have liked.

"Oh, yes," Ron said confidently. "Very definite."

Her expression softened, and he almost pulled out the Wand, but in the end, he hesitated. He was growing somewhat irritable at her reaction, and besides, he wanted to show it to her at the right moment. Perhaps he would buy her a gift—something she'd love, like some rare book or a new set of engraved quills—and reveal it to her then, so she'd be happy and want to celebrate with him.

She studied him. "So you had a talk with Kingsley today then? Or your boss?"

"No, but—"

"Ronald!"

"I know, okay? Trust me; the promotion is coming. It won't be much longer now at all."

She frowned. "I suppose…you must be right. You deserve it, after all. But perhaps we should wait to…celebrate further…until it actually happens?"

"Sure, sure," Ron said, ignoring her pointed insinuation that she didn't approve of further trips to the pub after work. "So, is there anything for dessert?"

She shook her head fondly. "There is a slice of Molly's cake left. I'll grab my notes and join you in the kitchen."

**-o0o-**

Ron couldn't sleep. The time was well past midnight and Hermione was fast asleep beside him, but he couldn't settle his mind, couldn't stop thinking about the Wand. He had tucked it under the corner of the mattress while Hermione had been in the bathroom, but the need to get up and check to see that it was still there nagged at his mind and left him sleepless.

As often as he dared, he slipped from their bed to reach beneath the mattress until his fingers closed around the cool wood.

Eventually, he gave up and pulled it from its hiding place, choosing instead to put it into his pillowcase for safekeeping.

Still, though, he was unable to rest as he imagined their new future. And if there were butterflies in his stomach, surely that was only natural given the immensity of the changes that would undoubtedly unfold.

The story of the Wand, too, ran through his mind.

He was still awake when the sun rose, light creeping over the sill of their small bedroom window. The Wand lay beneath his head pulling, ceaselessly, at his mind.

**-o0o-**

Ron found Hermione at her cramped desk, hunched over her books. "Hey," he greeted her, coming up behind her and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. "How 'bout a break from those books," he suggested, running a hand over her back. "I have an idea of something else we could do instead. Something…more interesting?" He trailed his fingers along her neck.

"I'm in the middle of—"

"Just a little break," he interrupted, turning her head to kiss her. "It's Saturday."

"I'd love to, but I'm sort of busy right now," she said after he released her, gesturing at her stacks of books. "I have an exam on—"

Ron was not to be swayed. Ever since he'd got his hand on the Wand, he'd felt a burn in his stomach. Hermione hadn't been in the mood the night before, but the curl of desire would no longer be denied. "C'mon. I'll help you study after."

"I don't really need—"

"Know what I need? You." He placed a row of kisses along the side of her face, recognizing his victory when the quill fell from her hand. He smiled slyly as she turned more completely towards him.

"Oh, don't look so smug," she chastised, trying not to smile.

He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. "You're mine," he declared, claiming her mouth with his.

She laughed, "All yours. Bedroom?"

"Nah, I want you right here."

"Here?" She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose…all right. Let me clean up my books, I guess."

"Fuck the books," he growled, shoving the various texts and parchments aside. He lifted her up onto the desk and unfastened the button at her waist, opening her jeans so he could slide his hand inside her pants and feel her heat as he took her mouth in his.

She gasped as he touched her, giggled as he divested her of her jeans with a tug that nearly pulled her from the desk, and then moaned softly when he lifted her shirt and pressed his face to her breasts. And then, when he took her with a ferocity that surprised even himself, she called out his name again and again.

The burn in his stomach flared and burned white hot as he fucked her right on her desk, its craving only satisfied when she was panting and writhing and pleading. When she was his completely.

"Merlin," she said afterwards, still breathing heavily. "That was…different." She climbed off the desk onto shaky legs to straighten her clothes.

"Good different?" he asked, refastening his own trousers and watching as she pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. Sweat glistened on her neck.

She smiled, as she finished dressing, then stepped back over to him and kissed him lightly, teasingly. "Not sure where that extra confidence came from, but it's dead sexy."

He smirked and the heat in his stomach ignited once more.

**-o0o-**

Ron adopted his usual scowl when he went to work the following Monday, but on the inside, he was perfectly content. After all, he had a secret. With the Elder Wand tucked inside his robes, he was more powerful than any of his colleagues, even if he was the only one who knew it yet. He went about his paperwork, knowing that soon things would be very different. He'd be the one being recognized and thanked with handshakes and pats on the back, and then, when he was Head Auror, he'd be the one offering his gratitude to those around him. Sure, he'd enjoy taking the best cases and maybe assign extra paperwork to the Aurors he didn't much like, but he'd be generous and fair when it counted.

On Tuesday he used the Elder Wand a few times, but only when no one else was watching, still content to keep his possession a secret. But by Wednesday, only pulling out the Wand to reheat his coffee and summon parchment and flush the loo had got a bit tiresome. He wanted to wield it when it mattered. Besides, it _wanted_ to be used. Practically begged for it. He could feel its magic, tingling against his skin when he held it and pleading for the glory it deserved when he lay awake at night. What good was it otherwise?

He dared to use it when his partner wasn't looking on Thursday. But that—unlocking a door and, later, sending off his Patronus to alert his boss of an arrest—failed to satisfy the Wand. He was itching for someone to catch him with it, so that he'd have an excuse to spread the news, but no one noticed.

The Wand made him powerful, sure, but only when he could use it. When people recognized it and even feared it, only then would he get the respect he truly deserved.

Late Thursday afternoon, Ron watched, seething, as the senior Aurors filed into an important meeting held in the Ministry's second floor conference room. He hadn't been invited and it infuriated him to no end. When he overheard another Auror whisper that Harry had been requested to attend but hadn't arrived, it was the last straw. Ron desperately wanted an invitation, meanwhile Harry had gotten one and not even bothered to show up.

He vowed he'd tell Hermione about the Wand that night; he was done being second class. Harry, who'd done nothing since the war, was still their hero and lauded as their Savior, getting the best treatment and the most exclusive invitations. Whereas he, Ronald Weasley, continued to fight for justice and put his life on the line for the good of the wizarding world, but remained nothing but the hero's best friend and sidekick.

Enough, he decided, was enough.

He left work early so he could buy Hermione some of her favourite sweets on the way home. She loved chocolates from the Continent, and he wanted to make sure she was in a good mood when he told her about the Wand, since she wasn't always the most open-minded when it came to some of his ideas. He'd make her see, though. She would understand when he explained. He'd done it for them both, after all.

**-o0o-**

"Hey, I'm home." Ron walked in the door and hung up his cloak. "How was your day?" he asked as Hermione called back her hello from the kitchen.

"I just got home, too, so I was putting on some pasta for dinner," she explained, wiping her hands on a towel as he entered. "Maybe twenty minutes or so until dinner?"

"Oh, good," Ron said. "Oh, and here. These are for you." He handed her the box of chocolates.

Her face took on a somewhat pained look. "Ron, I…I'm sorry. I'm still a bit sore from last night and I don't think we have enough time anyway." She gestured at the stove, where she'd set the pot to magically stir the contents inside. "It really won't take long."

Ron chuckled at her assumption. He had been more…enthusiastic of late. "No, I wasn't…that's not what I meant. I only wanted to give them to you."

She took the box and peered at it. "These are…wow. I've never actually had this kind before. Thank you. They're…_really_ nice."

"Too nice, you're thinking, aren't you?" Ron took the chocolates from her and set them on the counter, taking her in his arms for a hug. "Nothing's too nice for you, love."

She hesitated. "Thank you. I suppose I should wait to have them after dinner, shouldn't I?" She looked longingly at the box. "Yes. Must behave. All right. Give me a minute; I'll make a salad quickly to go with the—oh, don't scrunch you nose at me. Molly never fed you enough vegetables growing up."

Ron grinned and pushed the box towards her. "Have one now. Live a little."

A funny smile crossed her face as she looked at him. "You're acting…Ron, what's going on?"

Shrugging, he replied, "I might have something to celebrate—and no, before you ask, it's _not_ the promotion. Not yet."

"It'll happen. Soon." She smiled bravely. "All right, go on then," she said, giving in and sliding her finger under the ribbon around the box of chocolates. "What is it? What are we celebrating?" She opened the box and held it out to him so he could try one.

He declined, so she peered closely at the contents, trying to decide which one to choose for herself. Settling on one from the bottom row, she bit into it slowly, and made a soft sound of delight as she closed her eyes and tasted it.

"That was…wow." She sucked a smudge of chocolate off her thumb as she closed the box. "Amazing."

"You're pretty amazing," Ron teased.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "All right, now tell me what's going on."

"After dinner."

"We still have a few minutes. Go ahead. What is it?"

Hesitating, he almost lost his nerve, but the Wand would remain almost useless to him until he told her, so he fished it out of his pocket. It tingled in his hand. "This," he said proudly, "is what we're celebrating."

She recognized it immediately. Her mouth dropped open. When she gathered herself and spoke again, her voice was steel—cold and perfectly controlled. Deadly quiet, too, though there was no way he could miss a word.

"Why do you have that wand?"

"Because it's mine now." He reached toward her, to tilt her chin up, perhaps. To show her that it was fine. Better than fine. Brilliant. Instead, she shrunk backwards and he was left holding his hand out in mid-air.

"I want that thing out of our house. Give it back to Harry. Right now. Why'd he give it to you anyway?"

"No. Harry didn't want it, remember? But me, I know what to do with this wand. Now they'll promote me at work. They'll have to, since I'll be powerful and everyone will know me. They can't keep overlooking me any longer. And I'll be able to get us a better flat—one without a leaky bath and stains on the ceilings. I can take you to nice restaurants, the kind you like even though you never admit it. And we can get a house-elf—a paid one, one that's been freed first, of course—to help around here so you can study as often as you like. And…" He trailed off, his enthusiasm waning as her face twisted further and further in anger.

"Are you telling me you took that wand—took it. From…"

"Well I had to, didn't I? If I was going to change our lives, I had to."

"What have you done? Don't touch me." Hermione put her hand over her mouth. "I've got to. Move, Ronald! I'm going to be sick." She pushed past him through the entryway, ignoring the pasta as the water started boiling over.

He used the Wand to counter the heating spell she'd cast and trailed after her, cringing when she vomited in the loo. He used the Elder Wand to Summon a glass of water for her.

"Okay. It's okay. We can fix this. You need to put it back. Tonight. I'll go with you." She shuddered and wiped her mouth on a towel, but her voice was cool and business-like. "We'll Apparate to the gates outside Hogwarts. Let me get my shoes. At least Harry is still in control of the Wand; it wouldn't work for you anyway."

"Hermione—"

"God, Ron. What were you thinking? I mean, really. You _know_ what happens to everyone who touches that bloody Wand? It'd ruin our lives."

"Not Harry. Didn't ruin his life."

"No, he did a fine job of that on his own, didn't he?" Hermione kneeled to buckle her shoes. "I swear, he probably hasn't left his house in weeks."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not putting it back."

"Oh, yes, you are. Or I'll do it for you."

"Hermione, I beat Harry in a duel; don't you remember? When we were in Auror training together. Right before he dropped out. I don't think he'd slept in a week, or maybe he hadn't stopped sleeping for a week. Anyway, I disarmed him. Doesn't matter that it was his holly wand. It's mine, the Elder Wand is. I'm its master. And I'm _not_ putting it back."

"Who are you?" Hermione's voice was getting shaky again now that she realized he was refusing to go along with her plan. "This is not you. It's already messing with your head. Quickly, take hold of my arm. I'll Side-Along you. We're putting it back." She held her elbow out to him.

"Why aren't you listening to me? I am the _Master_ of the _Elder Wand_. I'm not putting it back in Dumbledore's cold, dead fingers. What use does he have for it?"

She stared at him and he shifted uncomfortably. He held the Wand out to her once more, but only enough for her to look at it. The thought of her touching it made him more nervous than he'd expected. He swallowed and tried again. "Maybe if you look at it you'll see what it can do for us. See, it's not evil. It's a wand. Requires a proper master, is all."

But she ignored it and stormed off. Ignored him, for the rest of the evening, too.

It wasn't at all like he'd thought his evening would go, truth be told. He definitely never envisioned having to sleep on the ragged old sofa after Hermione locked him out of the bedroom. She'd come round, he decided, pulling the threadbare blanket over him.

And if she didn't, he could make her, the small voice at the back of his head whispered into the darkness.

**-o0o-**

Ron left the Wand sitting out on his desk the next day at work. Eagerness turned to agitation as the hours wore on and no one paid it, or him, any mind. He wished Hermione was on board. He could have used her help dreaming up some terribly difficult, dramatic spell to perform for everyone, perhaps in the Ministry lobby at closing time.

But Hermione wasn't. So he resorted to positioning the Wand more and more prominently throughout the day, daring someone to recognize it.

No one did.

They'd notice eventually, he decided, or he'd simply have to make them see. The thought made him smile to himself.

**-o0o-**

It was too tempting to tell people; the urge to share his excitement too great, especially as he sat drinking Firewhisky with Neville and Seamus. They'd be excited for him, even if Hermione remained furious three days later. She still wasn't talking to him, and as Ron was fairly dying to show off his prize to those who'd appreciate it, he'd finally talked his friends into meeting him. As easily as a second drink slipped down his throat, the words spilled from his lips. He'd bought that round, and hadn't the others been surprised when he had.

Smiling to himself, he placed the Wand on the table before them. He'd tell his friends first and then the word would start to spread and everything would finally start coming together. His knee bounced in excitement.

Neville raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his whisky.

"Got a new wand, mate?" Seamus asked.

Ron grinned. "Yeah, you could say that."

Neville asked, "Yours break?"

"Let's just say this one is better. D'you recognize it?" Ron watched as Seamus and Neville shrugged, so he gestured to them to lean in closely. "It's the Elder Wand."

"Uh, that's a myth, you know." Seamus looked at him like he was mad. "Not real?"

"S'not. Trust me on that. And look; it's mine. I'm the Master of the Elder Wand."

"Sure," Neville said, biting back a smile. "And I'm on my way to the Fountain of Fair Fortune first thing in the morning. And we all know 'bout Seamus' hairy…heart."

"Shut up, Neville," Seamus said, his eyes darting over to the buxom barkeep with the long brown curls. "She'll hear you."

"Hey, I'm serious," Ron insisted, more loudly than he anticipated the words coming out of his mouth. "It really is the Elder Wand. Dumbledore had it for years, but now it's mine."

The grin fell from Neville's face. "You can't be ser—"

Ron was startled as he felt a tap on his shoulder. "You say that's the Elder Wand?" a haggard wizard from the next table asked, eyes wide.

Clutching the Wand tightly in his fist, Ron nodded once. "It is. The most powerful Wand in existence. And I'm its Master." His stomach twisted as he heard the news begin to make its way through the pub in disjointed whispers. This was exactly what he wanted. He wanted people to know about his power. Wanted them to see him.

Neville stared at him, his mouth open, finally swallowing and saying, "Uh, you—you know what they say—you should be careful with that."

"I'm fine," Ron reassured him. He was ready. Ready to claim the power of the Wand. He could feel it in his bones.

All around him, people began murmuring and turning to look at him. Some were openly staring while others merely glanced his way, their expressions ranging from surprised to suspicious and back again.

"You? Master…of the Elder Wand?" Seamus said. "You're mad."

"I'm not," he said. "I'm Master of the Elder Wand." He said it louder than necessary and more heads turned his way. "Master of the most powerful wand in existence," he said proudly, ignoring the nausea that swept over him and the cool sweat that broke out over his body. It was his time.

Seamus and Neville gaped at each other as he stood up and held the wand out. "See this, everyone? I am the new Master of the Elder Wand."

He expected shocked sounds from the crowd and perhaps some applause. Instead, a drunken old wizard with a long, straggly beard broke the silence from the corner of the pub. "You?" he roared with laughter. "You!" The wizard slammed down his tankard, droplets splashing out onto the table.

Nervous titters surrounded him as Ron felt his face get hot. They didn't believe him. He narrowed his eyes. "Yes, me. Doubt it again and I'll make you wish you hadn't!" Reaching for his whisky, he swallowed the last of it before setting the glass down with flourish and grabbing his coat. He refused to meet Neville's eyes as he left the table, stumbling a bit over the leg of his stool as he made his way to the exit.

Before he pushed the door open to leave, he turned back and the anxious chatter that had sprung up died again abruptly.

"I am the Master of the Elder Wand, the most powerful wizard in the world. I'm invincible," he said, flicking his wrist at the door so it opened wide. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he stepped out into the night.

"Bloody drunken fool," he heard someone say before the door swung shut behind him.

Something dark and powerful curled through his veins as he stumbled home.

**-o0o-**

When Ron arrived home, still furious from his experience at the pub, Hermione was waiting for him, as was Harry. Hermione's eyes were red. Harry looked like he hadn't washed his hair in a week and hadn't shaved in twice that long.

"Right, so, say it then," Ron finally said after Hermione gave Harry a pointed look. Because of course Hermione had got in touch with Harry. Ron had guessed Harry wouldn't approve of his choice, but then Harry had effectively been absent from their lives for a while now. Ron still cared what Harry thought—he always would—but Harry's absence stung. He'd got into the habit of pretending Harry's opinion no longer mattered.

Harry sighed deeply and scratched a hand through his hair. "Ron, you've got to put it back. The world…it can't handle this wand, even if you think you can. Besides, it's seen too much evil to help you the way you want."

Ron disagreed. "I'm not giving it up. This is my—our—chance to be happy."

"I'm happy already, you twit," Hermione said. "And after I finish university in a year or two and start working, we'll have more than enough."

"Bully for you. You'll be important at the Ministry while I'll still be filling out forms in between chasing down petty criminals. That doesn't make me happy, Hermione."

"Give me the Wand, Ron," Harry said firmly, holding out his hand.

"Why, so you can take it and disappear again for another four months? Or so you can snap it right in half and throw the pieces off some bridge on the way home? I don't think so." Ron glared at him.

"Ron, give Harry the Wand."

"Why can't you be happy for me? With this Wand, we can have anything we want, Hermione!"

"Harry, talk some sense into him!"

"Ron, enough. Give me the fucking wand."

A horrible sort of laughter erupted out of Ron, and Hermione's eyes went wide at the sound. "It's too late. I told everyone tonight at The Leaky. Neville, Seamus, everyone. People know. It'll probably be in the _Prophet_ in the morning. It's too late. I'm the most powerful wizard in the world. Why would I want to keep that a secret?"

"Ron—" Harry said, casually putting his hand into his pocket. Reaching for his wand, then; every Auror knew the signs and besides, he was done with Harry's sanctimonious bullshit.

Ron cut him off and pointed the Elder Wand at Harry. "No, Harry. It's always your turn, but not anymore. Now it's mine."

"What is wrong with you, Ronald?" Hermione was near tears; she always cried when she was very angry. "You think you'll have everything you want with that bloody wand in your hand? You won't have me!"

"Don't you leave, Hermione!"

"I will not let you ruin our lives. I'll be at my parents until you put that…that _thing_ back where it belongs."

"I can't believe you people!" Ron yelled. "Don't you see? Don't you understand? Fuck." He looked at the ceiling for answers. An awful dingy brown stain the size of a dinner plate looked back at him, the evidence of a leak from the flat above them. It had probably been there longer than he'd been alive. He ground his teeth. "You know what? You stay, Hermione. I'm leaving. And you, Harry, you have some nerve showing up only when Hermione wants you to have a go at me. I thought we were mates. But mates are happy for each other, aren't they? So maybe we're not anymore. Good to know." Ron went to the fire-place rather than risk Splinching himself because he was so angry. He took a pinch of Floo Powder and threw it in. "Three Broomsticks," he said firmly.

Ron briefly turned back to Hermione before stepping into the flames. "When you're ready to begin our new future, you know where to find me."

**-o0o-**

"I'm sorry, Weasley. But you must understand."

Ron didn't. Couldn't.

The Minister followed through anyway. It was barely half eight the next morning and Ron had been put on administrative leave, Shacklebolt telling him to stay home from his job as an Auror until the Ministry figured out how to deal with an employee whose wand was the envy of every criminal in Britain and beyond. That he'd shown up hung over and demanding to be promoted hadn't helped, but Ron was in no mood to wait around. He was ready to claim what was his, especially since he seemed to be losing what he already had.

At least he'd made the _Prophet_, even if the author of the article clearly had doubts about Ron's claim. He'd have to do something spectacular to prove it, something very impressive and very public.

In no mood to go back to The Leaky, he Apparated to The Hog's Head for a pint, forgetting, for a moment, who the owner was.

Aberforth wouldn't even let him in the door. As much as Ron protested, even he had to admit the man had a point; the Elder Wand had played a role in both Albus' and Ariana's deaths. Consequently, Ron walked back to his room in The Three Broomsticks even grumpier than before. It was best if he stayed close anyway. Hermione was sure to come around and he'd want to be there when she did. He could afford to be gracious.

Except Hermione hadn't appeared by dinner time and Ron was tired of stewing by then, so he tucked his wand in his robes and got ready to Apparate. He wasn't sure what sort of food he was in the mood to eat, but Hogsmeade was lacking in options and London was only a crack and some determination away.

Mere moments later, he was dusting off his jumper by the entrance to wizarding London. As he began walking the cobblestone blocks, he debated his options. Curry sounded appetizing, and he knew of a good place right near the entrance to…

Knockturn Alley.

Interesting.

Perhaps he'd get curry, but then maybe he'd take a stroll down the questionable streets afterwards. Dawlish might not want him chasing down criminals as an Auror, but if Ron happened to see some nefarious activity, he'd be remiss to not try and put a stop to it. In fact, proving how effective he could be might even get him reinstated at work faster. Besides, the Wand in his hand seemed to be begging for action.

Ron no longer felt very hungry, after all. At least not for curry.

Casting a quick Glamour to disguise himself, he hurried down the streets toward the sinister entrance of Knockturn, where the shadowy corners and sharp angles gave rise to the darker side of wizarding life.

**-o0o-**

Ron never made it for curry.

He knew where to look, and, sure enough, less than half a block from Borgin & Burkes, he found the trouble he sought. The illegal vial of thick silver unicorn blood was discreetly passed from one gnarled hand to another in exchange for several dulled coins, but the exchange was more than obvious to a trained Auror.

Of course, Ron couldn't exactly arrest the illicit potions dealer—the privilege had been revoked that morning—but Shacklebolt couldn't turn off Ron's Auror instincts. Without thinking, he jumped into motion, casting a simple _Incarcerous_ to immobilize the wizard dealer, followed by a rapid-fire Patronus to send for his Auror colleagues. As the potion buyer scrambled to get away, Ron stunned him, and the glass vial fell from the now-frozen fingers, smashing on the cobblestones below.

The spells had never been easier—or stronger. Ron didn't exactly have a soft spot in his heart for wizards seeking unicorn blood, and the Wand seemed to know it. The magic had burst forth violently from the tip, and had left Ron's fingers tingling.

It left the stunned wizard dead.

The spell he cast had been too strong.

The potions dealer began screaming for help as his client lay motionless on the ground. Ron could only stand there, completely frozen, as he watched the spilled unicorn's blood—meant to keep wizards alive—soak into the fallen man's robes.

The scene swirled before him, growing louder and more chaotic as others arrived on the scene. "The Elder Wand," Ron said, softly and in disbelief. "I didn't mean to. It was the wand. The wand." He didn't know to whom he was making his explanation, perhaps only himself.

A myriad of cracks sounded, signaling the arrival of Aurors.

Ron turned away before they noticed him and quickly Disapparated back to his room in Hogsmeade, abandoning the scene, even though doing so probably only invited more questions. But he couldn't stay; they'd take the Wand from him.

His room was dark when he arrived; he hadn't left a light on and Hermione still hadn't come by. He wished she was there, longed to bury his head in her thick hair, which always smelled like crisp apples and dusty books, and receive words of comfort.

But she wasn't there. In her stead, he lost himself in glass after glass of scotch, glad for the alcohol-infused stupor that fogged his mind and eased his nerves. He passed out completely an hour or two later, the potent liquid quickly working its magic on his otherwise empty stomach.

**-o0o-**

They found him there in the dead of night.

Not the Aurors, but two of Knockturn's Shadows, one of whom had witnessed the scene—and heard Ron's stunned words. The Shadow took the Wand and, mid-snore, slit Ron's throat for good measure.

And so Death took the first friend for his own.

**II.**

Hermione couldn't watch as Ron was lowered into the ground, but neither could she look away. Leaning back into her mother who stood behind her to hold her upright, Hermione never noticed the steady stream of tears that ran down her cheeks. She was hollow. She felt both nothing and altogether too much.

Her grief was silent and still and deep while the Weasley family wept openly—loudly—to her right.

Standing to her left, Harry seemed lost. He'd never been good at funerals, even though they'd attended too many together in the past. Hermione had always thought he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, if not to disappear completely. At a funeral, Harry was powerless to make a difference for his friends, rendered impotent by the permanence of their death. She knew he hated that, possibly more than the hell of having to say another goodbye.

Harry's face was vacant, as she expected. Generally expressive, Harry's lack of emotion was more telling than any tear-streaked cheek. But these days, the look wasn't one he only donned along with his funeral blacks. The blank stare was a constant; the fire in him had been extinguished sometime when she wasn't looking. She missed it, and missed Harry, but that ache was dull compared to the piercing, devastating pain of Ron's death. A fresh wave of sorrow crashed into her then, and she nearly choked as it tightened around her throat and squeezed.

_Just breathe_, she told herself, inhaling slowly.

Breathe.

She rocked backwards, further into her mother's arms, wishing she could turn and bury her face as though she were a young girl again, pretend none of it was happening.

It was happening though, and she wasn't a little girl anymore. As such, she braced herself and straightened, pretending to listen to the words being spoken about the man she loved, while tears continued to fall steadily and silently down her cheeks.

**-o0o-**

Hermione couldn't get control of herself. Sometimes, in the middle of walking down the street, she'd fall apart, sobbing hysterically as witches looked out their windows at her and wizards offered assistance.

Her father wrote her prescriptions and suggested counseling, while her mother held her and told her about the healing time would bring. Eventually, they returned home to Australia, and she'd never felt more alone.

She'd break down in classes, shaking and raw as tears poured down her face until another classmate would gather her up and usher her out of the room. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't cried herself to sleep.

She missed Ron with every single ounce of her being. She felt the pain acutely, even as the rest of the world went by in a daze.

**-o0o-**

Life went on. Somehow. Hermione tried to move forward, as the books she consulted said that was the best way to deal with loss.

But when she tried to study, determined to make it through her term, all she could see was Ron's face. As she put their belongings into boxes, unable to afford their tiny flat on her own, she felt him looking over her shoulder as she packed his favourite Cannon figures, spelling them to be unbreakable during their journey back to the Burrow. And when she unpacked her own possessions again, in a small single room close to the university, all she could think of was how horrid Ron's hair would look against the ugly pink bedding they'd provided and how she'd give everything she owned to see it anyway.

She picked up the nearest book, _Witch Ways to Grieve_, from where it lay on the bed beside her law textbooks. What did it know anyway? She chucked it at the far wall. The resulting crash was satisfying but it only fuelled the anger that was building in her bones. _Finding Lumos after Loss_ soon followed the first text. Her hardcover copy _Going On_ actually dented the wall, she threw it with such force.

Ron was gone. _Gone!_ She'd never gotten to say goodbye, and worse, their last words had been yelled in anger. She'd told him that wand would ruin their lives, and she'd been right. She had never wished so hard she'd been wrong.

And now the bloody wand was wreaking havoc as it bounced from dark wizard to dark wizard, leaving a trail of murders that kept the Aurors working overtime. The news was all over the _Prophet_ and on the wizarding wireless. She was never allowed to forget, even for a moment, exactly what Ron had done.

She fumed. They'd made it through the war despite the odds, only to lose him now. And like this! Why hadn't Ron fucking listened to her? He wasn't supposed to die. It wasn't his time.

An animalistic scream she hadn't known herself capable of tore free from her lungs.

She wanted him back. She wanted to scream at him until she couldn't scream anymore because of all that he'd ruined. And then she wanted to hold him in her arms and to be held by his in return. She wanted to kiss his lips and feel the heat of his temper, the touch of his skin. And then she wanted to ask him what the bloody hell she was supposed to do now.

Feeling the tears welling in her eyes, she brushed them away angrily. She'd known Ron since she was eleven years old. She didn't know how to be without him. What did books know of longing like this?

She crawled under her blanket, books falling to the floor beside her, unopened and unread.

Tomorrow. She'd start to move on tomorrow.

**-o0o-**

Hermione tried to be pleased when she looked at her end-of-term marks. In the end, she'd thrown her entire self into her studies, making up her missed work and doing a half dozen extra projects on the side. Her results were nearly perfect.

But to what aim? All the knowledge in the world wouldn't bring Ron back and she missed him every hour of every day. All of her reading and note-taking wouldn't change anything.

And now that it was fully summer, she didn't even have her studies. Not really.

Setting the parchment with her scores aside, she finished her tea, so desperate for guidance that she glanced at the dregs for advice. Seeing nothing she could recognize, she set down her teacup and rested her head on her arms.

She missed Ron. Missed his simple, straightforward approach to life when she couldn't get her own brain to settle. She missed how he could never quite hide his grin when she explained hair dryers and helicopters and electric blankets to Arthur for the fifth time. She missed the triumph that lit up his face when he solved a tough case at work. And she missed the way he'd look at her in awe when all she'd done was let him take off her shirt.

If only she could have him once again, for a minute, an hour, a lifetime.

What she needed was a project. Something to distract her and occupy her brain so she could begin to think about something else. The only thing she wanted was to have Ron back, but that wasn't a project she could undertake. Bringing people back from the dead was impossible, and no book would tell her otherwise.

Except the ones that did, of course—the ones that weren't available from polite libraries, but would have been filed under Necromancy if they had been.

Not that Hermione would have needed a book. She'd been Harry's sole confidant regarding many of his experiences during the war. Not even Ron had known everything. But she did. Harry had told her all of it, one night. And over tea, and then alcohol, she admitted to him what he'd expected—that she'd guessed all along.

Harry trusted her with the knowledge, and she'd never betrayed him. They were the only two who knew everything that had happened in the Forbidden Forest that night.

Everything. She knew that he died and then came back.

And she knew he wasn't the only one to come back; yes, she knew about the Resurrection Stone. She'd never paid much attention to that part and had forgotten it completely for a while, but some knowledge could never be entirely erased. The Stone wasn't lost, as Harry thought. She knew where to look, very much aware of the path he'd taken that dark night.

Thank goodness she knew the tales—she knew if she was ever tempted to use the Stone to be with Ron, he wouldn't be the same and she'd be heartbroken all over again. Very important details, those.

Thank goodness she knew them.

Thank goodness.

Before long Hermione visited the not-so-polite libraries anyway. Books weren't evil and it never hurt to fill her brain with a few more details. It was the start of her summer break, after all, so what was the harm in it? She completed an internship, too, but in her spare time, she did what she did best: she researched. After she read the books she could find easily, she found ways to get her hands on those that were darker, and considerably less appropriate in their content. She read them anyway. She even used Polyjuice to access a Dark Arts bookstore in Knockturn, and a fake accent to access another in Paris. Her owl brought her still other texts from places she didn't dare visit herself.

She wasn't looking for anything in particular, of course. She was simply reading. Learning was important, even knowledge of Dark Magic might come in handy one day.

And if she ever thought of a stone at all, it was always the small one she still wore on her ring finger, still not entirely able to let go.

**-o0o-**

The days she felt hollow were the easiest.

Other days, she felt as though a troll had taken up residence on her shoulders, weighing her down and squeezing her lungs until she couldn't breathe.

The worst days, she felt like a thousand needles were piercing her heart, leaving her bleeding and broken, damaged and raw, but all on the inside. Thus, no one noticed and she had to pretend that everything was fine.

Everything was fine.

Just…fine.

**-o0o-**

In late June, on the anniversary of Dumbledore's death, Hermione accompanied Harry back to Hogwarts. Their trip was an annual one, but it was the first time they'd gone without Ron.

Ron, of course, had been back since their prior visit. The thought still made Hermione feel ill.

They made the journey in near silence, trudging around the lake and across the grounds, their footsteps in the grass the only sounds they made.

There were a lot of things Hermione wanted to say to Harry—so many questions she wanted to ask him about that last night during the war—but she didn't dare. For all of his disinterest in homework and classes and education, Harry wasn't stupid. In fact, he was quite intuitive and she didn't dare alert him to her recent...scholarly pursuits.

Harry, too, didn't speak. He didn't ask how Hermione was holding up or how Ron's family was. He met her in the usual courtyard and they'd proceeded forth in silence.

When they got to the gravesite, Hermione tried to think of anything but Ron's last visit; the fond memories of Dumbledore seemed elusive this year. Eventually, she gave up. "I have to go," she said to Harry.

He looked at her, as though surprised to see her standing there.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Me too."

"Do you want to visit Hagrid before we go?" she asked casually.

Harry's forehead narrowed. "Why? Do I not see _him_ enough either?"

"No. No. That's not what I...Never mind. Let's go." When had it become this hard to be with Harry? She missed their camaraderie of old. She supposed they'd all changed since the war in order to survive. Or not, as the case may be. She winced as the pain in her chest blossomed anew.

Harry looked at her, puzzled, as though he was really seeing her for the first time all morning. "Did you want to see Hagrid?"

"Not particularly," she admitted. The trips to Hogwarts were still painful for her, too, and everyone always felt the need to talk to her about Ron. Sometimes she needed a break from all that. The look in people's eyes was always the same and she didn't particularly relish seeing it on Hagrid's face. "I only thought…it's a nice day for a walk. We could go back the long way around the lake."

"By the Forbidden Forest."

"Only if you want to."

Harry stared at her. "I'd rather not."

"Right, then. Off we go. Back the way we came," she said, hearing the false cheer in her voice and realizing Harry wouldn't miss it either.

Narrowing his eyes, Harry replied, "Right."

And off they went, because Hermione wasn't about to explain that the Forest was beckoning. Or that somewhere deep inside those woods, a small polished stone was calling out to her. Even as it lay discarded on the ground, gone but not forgotten, the stone tempted Hermione with silent promises of a chance to say a proper goodbye, the opportunity to give and receive the forgiveness she craved, and to see the face and hear the voice of her fiancé who'd left her alone and rudderless with his untimely death.

Their return to the castle was silent.

**-o0o-**

Whenever someone called Hermione "brilliant," she quickly corrected them. "Actually," she'd say, "I'm highly logical, which allows me to look past extraneous detail and perceive clearly that which others overlook."

Perhaps it was this reason that, one morning, she woke with the answer. Not that she consciously sought an answer to her problem, or even admitted her problem had an answer. Because when the problem was the death of a fiancé, there wasn't supposed to be a way to fix things like that, was there?

There was not.

Except, apparently her brain had worked overtime in the night, because there was a solution, right at the front of her thoughts. As she bathed and brushed and dressed and drank coffee, she rolled the idea around in her head, poking and prodding at the new truth until it had blossomed into something more closely resembling a plan.

A plan she'd never follow through on.

Though, if she wanted to…

_No,_ she reminded herself. It was a phenomenally bad idea.

But…why again was it such a bad idea to use the Resurrection Stone? It's not like…It's not like she'd…She wouldn't…It's not like she would want to _keep_ Ron permanently. She only wanted to…say a few things. She wouldn't say, "I told you so," even though she had, and even though the Elder Wand had now made its way into the hands of a powerful former Death Eater. That was no longer her battle to fight—that was up to the revamped Ministry to deal with. All she wanted was to say proper goodbye. And to tell Ron she loved him despite how it had ended.

And, if she used some additional magic—that was where her new idea came in—Ron would even be able to hold her one last time. As such, there would be no madness to ruin her, only closure and comfort, like Harry had experienced.

There would be nothing to worry about if she did it correctly. The second brother in the stories, he had gone mad because the fiancée he'd conjured had been but a wisp of her former self. But it didn't have to be like that, not at all. Not if she used her brain. She was Hermione Granger, after all, highly logical. Always right. And maybe a wee bit brilliant.

**-o0o-**

Hermione cancelled her evening plans to visit Ginny when she received an owl from the contact who had provided her with the most obscure of the Dark Arts books she'd acquired. She unrolled the slip of parchment. It didn't take long to read.

_Knockturn. Twenty minutes past sundown. He'll find you. Extra galleons will ensure a smooth transaction._

Swallowing hard, Hermione read it again before casting an _Incendio_ to burn the note. Most of her idea was simple, something she could manage easily on her own. But the final piece, the last ingredient, was darker. Trickier. And absolutely critical for her plan—or, rather, her research. There was no plan, after all. Only hypothetical theories based on some of the facts she'd learned of late. That was all.

The afternoon was uneventful. She passed the hours with her books, checking and rechecking her conclusions, reading a few pages she'd have to review again when she felt more focused. (For some reason, she'd felt vaguely nauseated for the remainder of the day.) Finally, a few minutes before the scheduled meet up, she pulled a hood over her head, cast the requisite glamours to disguise her face, and tucked her wand and a bag of coins into her robes.

Solid gold for liquid silver. What was so wrong about that?

She exhaled slowly, focusing her thoughts and steadying her nerves in order to Apparate.

She didn't think of the unicorn that had been slain for her experiment; doing so would have surely caused any reasonable witch to Splinch herself, and Hermione wanted no part in that.

**-o0o-**

Though she was never going to follow through with her plan—of course not!—she decided to test her hypothesis anyway. It was what good researchers did.

As such, she Apparated into the woods behind the University, nearly deserted for the summer. It was secluded enough to provide some semblance of privacy. Not that she was doing anything wrong; if another student wandered near, it wouldn't matter. But the likelihood of distraction there would be minimal, and she'd be able to concentrate.

The first step was casting her Patronus. She'd gotten proficient at the spell years ago, and with the appropriate incantation and a quick thought of the first time Ron's lips had found hers, her otter burst forth from her wand.

She wasn't sure how ethereal Ron would be if she were to use the—not that she would—but he couldn't be any less substantial than her wisp of a Patronus. Not that it seemed to mind its transparency; the otter was gamboling about before her, seemingly glad to be scampering through the woods.

She raised her wand. It was time to begin.

"_Duro_." She cast the simple spell designed to harden any object. Including, she learned, those that were not initially tangible.

Her otter paused and blinked at her, eyes almost comically wide as its form began to glow a yellowish color. Or was it red? The shade was changing, developing, and becoming more opaque. Deepening. Ah, yes. It was brown now, as an otter should be. And its fur was becoming solid enough that she could no longer see through it.

An excellent start; everything was proceeding as planned.

Next, she aimed her wand at a small rock on the ground, quickly Transfiguring it into a tiny clay bowl. "Here," she said. "Come here. Look what I've brought for you." Her words were soft and gentle so as not to startle her otter as she pulled the small vial from her pocket and uncorked it. She didn't have much of the silver substance—only enough to conduct the test once and still have enough left over. Therefore she very carefully poured no more than the allotted amount into the dish.

"Here you are," she said again as the otter stepped up to the bowl. Hermione had researched this in advance, of course. Her Patronus would ultimately do what she told it to do, if it was able to. Now that it was solid, it could do what she most wished, which was to ingest the metallic liquid.

"Take a drink," she urged.

The otter looked at her, its small body quivering.

"Go on."

Hesitating only a moment, it began to lap at the unicorn blood. She observed it carefully for any ill effects, but saw none. When the creature finished drinking, it cocked its head at her. She smiled. "Not so bad? I suspect you'll last a good deal longer than an average Patronus now, though the effects will probably wear off eventually, of course."

The otter looked at her for a moment before it began playfully dashing around the woods, rolling and bouncing along happily. "Come back," she demanded after it had moved farther away. It did not return. "I said, 'Come back to me'," she repeated. She tried a third time, but still it ignored her, behaving precisely the way a normal otter would.

Absolutely delighted, she couldn't help but grin. She had done it: given form to the formless, and given independent life to the lifeless.

She thought, belatedly, that she might have reached out and petted it, but while the otter didn't scamper away completely, neither did it come close enough again for her to feel the scruffy brown fur under her fingertips. After a few more minutes of playing, it gave her a final look and scurried off, running into a large bush at one point while it bounded through the forest.

She may not have actually felt her Patronus herself, but there, on the bush, several branches bent unnaturally, exactly where the otter had bumped into it.

That was proof enough for her.

Hermione smiled to herself. It had worked, and she very much enjoyed being right.

**-o0o-**

The next task was retrieving the Resurrection Stone from the Forbidden Forest. Not that she was going to use it, of course, but it was the next logical step in her entirely hypothetical plan.

She couldn't ask Harry for details—she hadn't seen him since their visit to Hogwarts. Besides, thinking of Harry made her feel guilty and uncomfortable these days. She should have tried harder to stay in touch, but he'd grown more and more distant, too, and relationships took two people to sustain. Still, she felt bad about it. Her discomfort ran even deeper, because she knew he'd be disappointed with her and worried about her project, even though she never planned to actually _do_ anything. Not really.

Instead of facing Harry, she simply let the space between them grow and grow. It was easier on them both.

Traveling to Hogwarts under the guise of consulting with McGonagall was the best plan she could come up with, and the visit went smoothly enough, even though Minerva kept trying to offer her lemon sherbets as a joke, for old time's sake. Hermione hadn't felt like joking and the Headmistress wasn't very good at it anyway.

After their discussion of her academic results, Minerva offered a brief update on the whereabouts of the Elder Wand. Not that Hermione really wanted to know, but when McGonagall shared her concerns about the rising of former Death Eaters from the woodwork, Hermione couldn't help but listen. Still, most of the truly dangerous parties remained firmly entrenched in Azkaban, and the Ministry and the Aurors would surely put a stop to the Death Eaters soon enough.

After departing the castle, Hermione headed off to the Forbidden Forest, her walk through the grounds blessed by the Headmistress herself. She'd pass by Hagrid's on the way, but unless he saw her, she'd keep going. She hoped he was off visiting Olympe Maxime at Beauxbatons for the summer.

Sure enough, she made it to the Forest without being stopped, and wandered far into the dark, silent depths without fear. She'd been a child the last time a few trees had scared her.

When the heavy foliage and thick trunks seemed to close in around her and the air was thick with the smell of the woods, she realized it was time to start looking. She was near where Aragog had once lived, in the clearing where she knew Harry had been killed by Voldemort. As she could logically assume the path Harry had taken from the castle—he was nothing if not direct—there was only a small area to search, even accounting for movement due to rain and the like. No more than a quarter mile, she guessed, and that was nothing for a witch with an excellent _Accio_.

Her footsteps were loud in the quiet space; even the birds were silent as they watched her. She paused.

"Don't do it," Harry begged in her head. "Please, Hermione."

"Best not," Ron chimed in, and her knees almost gave out. But how could he judge her after what he'd done?

"Shut up, the both of you." She spoke loudly to drown them out. "I know what I'm doing." She planted her feet and raised her wand. "_Accio_ Resurrection Stone."

She waited a few moments, but no stone responded. She hadn't expected it to be that easy, but she had to start somewhere.

"_Accio_ Deathly Hallow," she tried again.

Still nothing.

"_Accio_ Peverell's heirloom."

_Nothing. _

"_Accio_ Horcrux."

"_Accio_ Dumbledore's gift to Harry."

"_Accio_ polished stone."

"_Accio_ Harry's fingerprints. Or DNA. Saliva. I don't know! Just—just _Accio_!"

She swallowed and suddenly words popped into her head; she was saying them before she could contemplate them. "_Accio_ the gift of Death."

And there it was, leaping up from the ground and planting itself firmly in her fist.

Hermione felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. She had done it.

"Well," she said to herself, her words unexpectedly breathless. "That's sorted." Turning the stone over in her hand, she saw the engraving of the Hallows. She used her fingernail to brush the dirt free from the markings. It was so small, and yet…

_Right_. Time to go.

Hermione clutched her prize as she started back. It was a shame there was no one with whom she could share her victory.

_Soon_, her mind supplied as she leapt over a small stream along the way out of the Forest. _Soon_.

And Hermione's plan was no longer hypothetical at all.

**-o0o-**

Hermione returned to her rented room, afraid to even put the stone in her pocket lest it jostle and become lost once more.

She wasted no time; she'd been alone long enough, and the promise of being with Ron was beyond her power to resist. Once she'd retrieved the vial of unicorn blood and her wand, she had the unexpected yet unmistakable urge to tidy her belongings. Consequently, she spent a few minutes fluffing the pillow on her bed and straightening her stacks of books. She tucked _Witch Ways to Grieve_ under her mattress—it was worthless anyway—and put her Dark Arts books on the bottom shelf, with the titles turned away from view. She vanished the old teacup left out on her desk and ran a quick comb through her hair. Last, she pulled a small twig free that had snagged on her shirt while she was in the Forest, and then, finally, she took the stone that had the power to recall the dead and turned it thrice in her hand.

She had known what would happen, or at least, she understood the gist of it. But still, it was to her amazement and delight when she heard a soft knock on her door, followed by the _snick_ as it opened. Ron's face popped through first, and then the figure of the man she had once hoped to marry appeared fully before her.

Ron wore a soft, loving smile, and yet he wasn't Ron exactly. Neither ghost nor truly flesh, as Harry had described. She startled to realize he wore the clothing he'd had on the last time she'd seen him, the day before he died. "Hermione," he said, his voice rough and yet, insubstantial.

She searched his face for the spark that made him _Ron_, reaching for him instinctively, though when her hand passed directly through his arm, she was abruptly reminded that he wasn't real—not yet. She had prepared for this, though, and it was good that she had, because there was something about the shade version of Ron that was unnerving. The very sight of him (and yet, not him) gave her goosebumps.

Ron gazed at her, and said her name again. "Hermione." He raised a hand to reach out to her, before dropped it ineffectually. "It's so good to…I never thought…" His smile faded. "But what have you…Didn't Harry tell you how this works?"

"No, Ron, I've figured it out. Don't worry. Here." Hermione grabbed her wand. "Here," she said. "Let me help. I know how to make you real."

His face twisted as she aimed the wand at him. "No—"

But she flicked her wrist anyway. "_Duro_."

Ron gasped as his shape solidified. He raised his hand to his face, feeling the skin of his cheek and the side of his jaw. "What…What are you doing?"

"The Stone worked for Harry, didn't it? He didn't go mad. I won't either. I'm smarter than all that nonsense. This way I'm only making you more…permanent."

"The Stone didn't harm Harry because he was about to die. Remus told me, when he finished yelling at me." Ron looked away. "I'm so sorry. I never should have—the Wand…" He swallowed. "But, I don't belong here, Hermione. I can't…everything feels wrong, the air too thick, objects too sharp. It can't last. You've got to let me go. For good this time."

She ignored him, quickly locating the vial of remaining unicorn blood. She uncorked it and held it out to him. "Hurry. Drink it. I don't know how long the hardening spell will last. You have to drink it while you can."

His eyes widened in horror as he backed away. "No! Is that—? Oh, Merlin, No. Hermione. No! What did you do?"

"I'm giving you your life back," she said. "Drink it, and you'll live."

"You know the cost of this! How could you?"

"It's fine, Ronald!" she insisted. "Obviously, I didn't slay the unicorn, so I'm not cursed."

"But your galleons did!" Ron paced.

"I'm fine! Look, I didn't bring you back to fight." She sat on her bed. "Are you going to drink it or not?" She held it out once more.

"Then why did you bring me back?"

"If you have to ask, I needn't have bothered." Her eyes watering, she refused to meet his gaze.

"Wait, Hermione. Please don't cry. I missed you so much; I can't begin to explain how much."

"Then stay," she said quietly. "I did this for you. For us."

Ron took the vial from her hand and stared at the thick, silvery blood, his brow furrowed. "I know you did," he said at last, tipping the vial back into his mouth and swallowing the contents.

Tears of happiness slid down her cheeks as she stood and threw herself into his arms. He pressed his lips to hers, the empty vial slipping through his fingers unnoticed as he pulled her close. "I've missed you."

His hands, his embrace, and his lips were cold, but she ignored the unexpected sensation. A small detail like clammy skin wouldn't keep them apart.

Clinging to him, she tried to embrace this new Ron—at least until she felt his grip loosening. She looked up at him and gasped.

His eyes were changing, becoming milky and vacant, his expression faded until it was almost completely lifeless. Even his muscles went slack. "Ron?"

"Hermione," he breathed, clearly struggling to make the sounds at all, even though his physical form was as solid as she'd hoped. He was fading, greying, before her eyes. His presence was _shrinking._"The blood…the curse."

"Wait," she ordered. "Stay here. I'm going to the library. I'll figure this out. It's the veil they spoke of in the stories. I'll find a way to lift it."

"I'm not behind a veil. You've got to let me go."

She heard his plea, but ignored him. Because she couldn't, not again. "Shh, Ron. Don't. Let me think."

"You have to let me go. It's the unicorn blood. I can feel it. It's the curse that comes with it. At the moment the blood crosses your lips—"

Hermione's knees gave out. How could she have missed it? She sank to the floor. "The minute the blood passes one's lips, the drinker will be cursed and have a half-life." And he'd started as a shade, incomplete to begin with. She'd reduced him still further and forever cursed him—probably both of them—besides.

She saw it then, how she'd already gone mad in her grief. She'd ruined her own life; that was for sure. She could never be a lawyer for the Ministry now, not after her illegal purchases and use of Dark Magic. She'd never marry or love again; it had always and only ever been Ron. And how could she trust her own mind now?

And yet, she felt powerless to do anything other than continue down the path she'd set in motion. She had to try to fix everything. Maybe she still could.

"I don't belong here. I am nothing. You have to let me go." Ron's words were breathy and seemed as though they came from far away. Perhaps they did.

"I can fix this," she pleaded, tears in her eyes. "Ron, I can. Give me time."

"So you can go mad? That's what will happen. And I'll suffer to witness it, while powerless to stop it. You must drop the Stone and never pick it up again." Ron looked ill. "Promise me. Promise me you'll never use it again."

"Harry used it," she said stubbornly. If Harry could do it…

"Harry's parents, Sirius, and Remus—they went back to _retrieve_ Harry. Am I to retrieve you?"

She looked at him as awareness dawned on her. "Is death better than being forever cursed?"

"Hermione…"

"Is it?"

"Don't…even ask that question."

She took a deep breath and tried to find her Ron in the shade before her. She hoped—she prayed she hadn't ruined things for him…wherever he would go next. Hoped that curses only extended through this life. She felt herself cracking, her heart shattering for the hundredth time and knew she wouldn't be able to put herself together again.

"I love you," she said. It was, after all, what she'd longed to say from the start, and why she'd brought him back. "I love you, and I'm sorry." She swallowed and set the stone onto the floor at her feet.

Before Ron had even completely vanished, Hermione was already composing herself and making her next plans. When she was able, she got up, dried her eyes, and pulled her copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ from her shelf. It was the book Dumbledore had left to her. She turned to the story of Babbity Rabbity. Babbity, she recalled, knew all about certain types of toadstools.

She read the story quickly, ignoring the shaking of her hands and the drips of salty tears that fell onto the worn pages.

**-o0o-**

Standing once more in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, Hermione turned the Resurrection Stone thrice in her hand, bidding Ron to come to her once more.

To come _for_ her.

It was better than living a cursed life.

And quicker than falling asleep.

When she heard the subtle movements of her ex-fiancé behind her, she quickly put the poisonous toadstool in her mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly.

"I open at the close," she murmured, opening her palm to let the Stone fall, once more, to the earth. And then, from the shadows, the shade of her former lover looked on in horror as the second friend, cursed and driven mad with hopeless longing, killed herself so as truly to join him.

And so Death took the second friend for his own.

**III.**

Harry had never been to Australia before, but that was where Hermione's funeral was held. He sort of thought it should have been located closer to her home and to her friends, but no one had asked for his opinion; in the end, he decided not to have one.

His eyes were dry throughout the short service. He was asked to say a few words, but declined. He always declined. Words took heart if they were to be worth saying at all, and he had nothing left to give on that front.

Having attended more than his share of services since the war, he did what he always did during the funeral: pretended he was somewhere else.

Still, even though he was a million miles away from Australia in his mind, and Australia was yet another million miles (give or take) from London, Harry recognized (could have, probably, from another million miles distance) the tall, thin man with the white blond hair weaving his way through the crowd after the service had concluded.

His stomach clenched. Why, of all people, was Draco Malfoy at Hermione's funeral? The thought of it heated his blood, a marked change from his usual practice of feeling nothing at all. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Malfoy approached the casket. Harry didn't try to hold himself back at that point; he strode purposefully toward Malfoy, demanding, "Why are _you_ here?"

Malfoy dropped back, but he lifted his chin higher than necessary to respond. "Your permission is unrequired. I was Hermione's classmate at University."

"She never mentioned you," Harry said, even though he hadn't talked to Hermione about much of anything in a very long time. It stung that perhaps she'd grown close to Malfoy in his absence.

"I expect not. We weren't close," Draco replied coolly.

"So again, I ask you, 'Why are you here?'"

"Never mind, Potter. I'm leaving now, so you won't have to worry about me sullying her funeral for a moment longer." Draco turned and left, his long strides carrying him away before Harry had quite figured out he'd been leaving at all.

Harry stared after him for a moment before turning back to the casket.

Problems. There were so many, weren't there? Old problems. He looked around at the reporter from the _Prophet_ who was clearly wanting to speak to him. New problems, like the loss of his remaining close friends, even though time and neglect had been loosening their ties. And now old problems reinventing themselves halfway around the world, like Malfoy. He hoped the bastard hadn't sneered through the funeral. Hermione deserved better. Even if—no, especially because of—how she'd unraveled at the end.

His face softened as he set aside the jarring encounter.

Harry should have been there for her. The guilt had settled over him as soon he'd gotten word. Guilt was a feeling to which he'd become accustomed. There were a good number of deaths he could have prevented if he'd done more, reacted faster, been better. But he could never be as good as they hoped or as much as he needed to be. The guilt was such a persistent presence he'd learned to ignore it. It was self-preservation at that point.

He sighed deeply. "Goodbye, Hermione." He kissed his hand and then rested it on the polished wood. Realizing his eyes were watering despite himself, he didn't linger. "Next time, maybe take me with you," he murmured before donning his Invisibility Cloak and taking his own leave in the opposite direction of the reporter.

He was heading back to London in the morning.

**-o0o-**

Harry arrived home to an empty flat, as always. It was cluttered, though, which helped it seem fuller. Or, at least, that's what he told himself when he was greeted with the mess, and again when he tossed his shoes aside and opened his luggage to root for his toothbrush instead of unpacking properly.

After puttering around for a while, he sat down with the take away he'd picked up on his way home and the book he'd started reading before he had left, but he seemed entirely unable to relax. His dinner wasn't sitting well (though, to be fair, not much would have after a trans-continental Portkey) and his book wasn't holding his attention. Restless, he washed his dishes, and then bathed himself, feeling less than fresh after his travels. Once he had dried off and donned a clean pair of pyjamas, he wandered back over to his favourite spot on his sofa to go through the stack of post that had accumulated in his absence. It wasn't much and didn't take long to sort through—a few bills, a short note from Neville asking him to meet for a pint after they both got back, a request for his presence at a fundraising event for bisexual centaur advocacy, and a sympathy missive signed by several Hogwarts professors. He binned the lot of them without even reading.

If only his Invisibility Cloak could help him escape from life and its myriad of commitments. Each of the letters required something from him and the pressure to reply weighed heavily. He knew his response was illogical and disproportionate, and his inability to deal with even a small pile of post made him more upset with himself.

Deciding to go to bed early was easy. Actually sleeping was harder.

He tossed and turned throughout the night, waking up repeatedly to non-existent sounds and imagined interruptions. By the time the sun rose, he was completely disgusted with everything, from his twisted pyjama pant leg and his owl's unwillingness to deliver his bills straight to the hired goblin at Gringotts, to the way his toaster would certainly burn his toast because it was bitter it had been left alone for several days. He was also growing angrier and angrier that Malfoy'd had the gall to show up in Australia.

Then again, Malfoy had always been a bastard to Hermione, so perhaps Harry shouldn't have been surprised that he'd show up to ruin her funeral. Bastards should be banned from funerals, he decided, kicking off his covers for the final time and getting up to make coffee. Bastards and—come to think of it, maybe banning funerals altogether would be even better. He wasn't sure he could attend another and maintain his will to live.

Stewing, he waited as the coffee brewed, eventually unable to help himself from gathering a slip of parchment he found on his desk and a spare self-inking quill that he'd located under his Muggle TV guide.

_Why were you there?_

Harry couldn't help it. He had to know. He had enough problems; worrying what Malfoy was up to did not need to be another. Without thinking twice, he signed it and sent it off with Flynn, his small (and slightly uncooperative) elf owl. He'd chosen Flynn because of how different he was from Hedwig, and because the small owl had needed a home after the war.

_Ahh, yes._ There was the guilt again, and Hedwig guilt was pretty much as bad as it got.

Pouring his coffee and taking a sip, he scalded his tongue. Merlin, but his coffee tasted especially bitter that morning.

His toaster hissed and sputtered in the background.

**-o0o-**

Harry unrolled the parchment that had been Owled to him.

_Fuck off, Potter. It's no business of yours. _

The response came a day after he'd sent his original message, the owl arriving while Harry was attempting to Firecall customer service about his accidental magical magic accident insurance. It had taken him all day to work up the energy to place the call in the first place, and now he was having no luck resolving his policy change—the witch he spoke to kept trying to get him to sign autographs instead of appropriate parchments. The interruption of the speckled Long-eared owl at his window was almost welcome, and he broke the connection abruptly.

Of course, his mood was unimproved when he read the message, but he responded, sending it back with the owl after giving it a small treat.

_Oh, but I think it is. Hermione wouldn't have wanted you there._

It wasn't more than a few hours before the owl returned once more.

_Again I tell you, Do Fuck Off. _

Harry didn't hesitate.

_I don't think so. Tell me why the bloody hell you felt the need to ruin my friend's funeral. _

He didn't get another response that night, though, or the next day, and the situation continued to eat at him. After another few days he sent Flynn off with another.

_Tell me. _

Nothing. He tried again that night.

_Malfoy. Tell me. _

Still, he got no response. Harry was getting angrier and angrier as Malfoy continued to ignore his notes.

_Fucking tell me! _

He sent Flynn off with the latest note, demanding that the owl not return without a response. It took another six hours, but eventually his owl returned bearing a slip of parchment.

_Christ, Potter. What the fuck is wrong with you? I don't have to tell you anything. Back off. And if you send your obnoxious owl here again, I'll feed it to my wife's Malayan Pit Viper. _

Harry blinked at the parchment. Malfoy was married? Odd, that. It didn't seem to fit. But in any case, he wasn't about to endanger Flynn, even if he was pretty sure Malfoy was bluffing.

He'd simply go in person instead.

**-o0o-**

A house elf came to the door of the Manor when Harry knocked.

"Draco Malfoy, please," Harry said.

"Ellie is finding Master Draco. Ellie is asking Mr Harry Potter to please wait here."

Harry nodded and did just that. When Draco was a long time in coming, Harry huffed loudly and knocked again.

A different elf appeared. "Master Draco is eating his dinner. He is not wanting you here."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I'll wait."

The elf began to wring his hands, which in Harry's experience, was a sure sign that self-flagellation would soon follow, something he was always eager to prevent.

"Look, I need to…" Harry started.

"Mr Potter, sir, Lyre has been instructed to escort you off the grounds unless you is wishing to meet Mistress Astoria's hungry companion." Lyre leaned in to whisper, "Lyre is advising against that, Mr Potter, sir. Venom is very unpleasant."

Harry shrugged. "Seems Malfoy forgets I'm a—"

"A Parseltongue." Malfoy finished, appearing behind Lyre. "I remember."

"Malfoy."

"Couldn't leave it alone, Potter?" Malfoy asked from the doorway, towering over Harry, both because Harry stood a few steps below, and because Draco'd grown fairly tall while Harry never had.

"Why wouldn't you answer me?"

"And why should I have? It was none of your business."

"Come off it. Tell me."

"Have you nothing to do but fixate over my comings and goings then?" Malfoy leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, all sharp angles and harsh lines.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You ruined my friend's funeral."

"Did I? Was it ruined, Potter? Ever so enjoyable it would have been, had I stayed home?" he sneered.

"Merlin, you're such a—"

"Yes," Draco drawled. "I'm sure I am. Now please go away. I have my life to live. And you're ruining it. It was ever so enjoyable until you came along. Lovely, like a funeral." Malfoy stepped back to shut the door.

"You're lying. You're up to something. You didn't even know her." Harry clenched his fists.

"And you did? At the end, you knew her?"

"Fuck you." Harry was seething.

"Lyre, see Potter out."

"_No._ Not until you tell me."

"This is my property, and you are quite unwelcome. If you don't leave, I'll contact the Ministry. Lyre?"

The house elf took his hand, and started pulling him away from the house. Either the house elf was extraordinarily strong or there was some magic involved in hurrying him along. "You're a bastard, Malfoy. Always have been, always will be. A goddamn bastard," Harry shouted as he was led away. He turned when he was outside the front gate and yelled back a final time. "A bastard!"

"Fuck off, won't you?" Malfoy called back. "Oh, and Potter? I went to the funeral to apologize. Feel better? I certainly do. Because now you're the bastard. Fuck you and the broom you rode in on, and if you come here again, I'll feed your bollocks to the snake."

**-o0o-**

_Fucking fuck._ Harry stormed around his flat. He had to…he had to…He had to do _something_. Had to…_Fuck_.

When he couldn't take it anymore, he stuck his head in the Floo to Firecall the Weasleys. Charlie opened the connection, surprising him. He hadn't realized Charlie hadn't returned to Romania, probably still there for Molly's sake.

"Harry."

"Er. Yeah. Hey, Charlie. Still…home?"

The corner of Charlie's mouth curved. "It would seem that way." Harry had once found the look attractive on Charlie, and he'd even kissed those lips a handful times a few years back. Those days were far in the past now, and he knew neither of them were interested in anything at this point. He was pretty sure Charlie's most serious relationship was with his dragons, and Harry wasn't in that place either. Hadn't felt the stir of desire in his stomach for a long, long time. He might always think of those brief kisses when he saw Charlie's smirk, but the reminder wasn't unpleasant.

"So, how are—"

"I'm…you know."

"I know."

Harry couldn't hold Charlie's gaze. "Look, I was curious…are Bill and Fleur still in France?"

"Yeah," Charlie replied. "Fleur's mum is helping with Victoire, I think."

"So Shell Cottage is empty?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. Why? Fancying a bit of a beach hols?" Charlie asked. The unspoken implication that it was too soon after the funerals for a seaside vacation hung in the air.

"No," Harry corrected. "I need to get away. Some space to think. I'm…I feel like ants are crawling over my skin."

"Place to escape?"

"Exactly," Harry confirmed.

"Right," Charlie said. "I'm sure you're welcome to it. Bill always offers. Owl him to tell him when you're going to be there. Oh, but Harry? Trust me when I say you can't escape this sort of thing, not even if you go halfway to China. Because you can't escape your own head, you know? Believe me. I've tried."

"Yeah. Okay. Gotta go," Harry said quickly, dismissing Charlie's words.

"Sure, Harry. Don't be a stranger."

He briefly met Charlie's eye before ducking his head and closing the connection.

**-o0o-**

Stumbling out of the Floo, Harry looked around the small sea-side cottage, dropping his bags on the bed in the small guest room overlooking the sea. The air was salty, and the breeze off the water was cooler than he was accustomed to inland. He wandered the cliffs along the water for hours, occasionally throwing a rock over the side. On the way back, he visited Dobby's grave, laying a few small shells atop the soft ground.

He felt calmer after being outside by himself all day; his anger and anxiousness had seemed to melt under the warm, cloudless early September sky. He also slept better than he had in a few nights. The next morning, he felt energized enough to go into the nearest town, Tinworth, for some supplies.

He picked up some food at a Muggle market and, once outside again, ducked behind a wall to shrink his purchases and cast a feather light charm on them for the walk home.

Stepping back into the street, he walked directly into a pretty dark-haired woman, smartly dressed—perhaps too much so, for the location. "Oh!" she said, backing up. "Dear. I'm ever so—"

"It's my fault," Harry said to her. "I'm sorry; I should have been paying atten—"

"Wait. You're Harry Potter." Where her tone had been warm and friendly, it was now far colder. She eyed his forehead.

"Er. Yeah," he said, cursing his luck, as he'd hoped to remain anonymous. He should have brought his Invisibility Cloak for the walk home. "I am."

She nodded stiffly, her nose in the air, and turned away without another word. Harry thought the behavior odd until he heard the voice call from behind him. "Astoria? The shopkeeper said the apothecary was down the road and left on Aberdeen."

The woman froze as Harry turned to see Draco stepping out of the shop next door.

"What the _fuck_ are _you_ doing here?" Harry growled.

"Christ. Not this again," Draco snapped.

"Let's go." Astoria put her hand on Draco's arm.

"No. Come on, then. Who are you apologizing to this time?" Harry spit. "Bill, perhaps—for the scars? He's not here right now, though. Or maybe Dobby?"

Malfoy's eyes turned to steel and his voice matched. "You're out of line, Potter."

"We're going," Astoria cut in, turning Malfoy around. "Now."

She looked back at Harry. "And you," she continued sternly. "We're here dropping off some Cornish pixies that have been roaming Hogwarts and multiplying since the war. Draco rounded them up as a favor to the Headmistress and returned them here to the forests where they come from. And, by the way, as far as I'm concerned, Draco isn't the one who needs to be apologizing at this point." Draco stiffened as she spoke but never turned back around. In the end, she merely shook her head. "You two need to find a way to let go or you'll never move on. As far as I can tell, you're the only ones who haven't."

"I've moved on," Harry insisted.

She gave him a scalding look and led Draco away.

"I have!" Harry said again, but they ignored him.

_Fuck._

**-o0o-**

_Potter,_  
_  
I will be by at nine tomorrow morning. Astoria believes that a simple conversation will allow us to set aside our past antagonism. Knowing you better than she does, I, of course, have less faith that a little dialogue could ever be successful. Nonetheless, keeping the peace with my wife must supersede my desire to hex you a few hundred thousand times. Thus, I shall call on you tomorrow. _  
_  
Don't bother responding. I've told you in advance why I'll be there so as to save you the trouble of getting all worked up overnight. It seems that determining my motives continues to be your primary goal in life. I do hope I'm wrong on this; the Chosen One surely has a less pathetic existence than that. _  
_No need to send the address. I've been to Shell Cottage in the past and I presume that is where you're __hiding__ staying._  
_  
Ever so sincerely,_  
D. Malfoy  
_  
PS. I visited the humble Shell residence last year to apologize to William Weasley, you giant fucking arsehole. I assume you would want to know._

When reading the note, Harry's temper flared and he paced around the cottage cursing the existence of the Malfoy family, and, as a new twist, the interfering Greengrass woman.

The salt air was no balm that night and he was never able to fall asleep for more than a few minutes at a time.

The hour was past three a.m. when his anger began too cool. Not that Malfoy wasn't a jackass; he was. And not that Astoria shouldn't have left well enough alone; she should have. But rather, the apathy and exhaustion that had settled over the rest of his existence began to slip in through the still-raw Malfoy fissures, coating and softening them with practiced indifference.

Harry had to stop caring one way or another about Malfoy. He wasn't worth the energy.

**-o0o-**

Opening the door before Malfoy even knocked, Harry simply asked, "Tea?"

Malfoy's eyes settled on him, even as his haughty nose rose higher into the air. "A peace offering?"

Harry laughed once, sharply. "An offering."

Grey eyes narrowing, Malfoy pursed his lips. "Fine."

"Fine," Harry echoed, leaving the door open as he walked through the house into the kitchen. Malfoy seemed to hesitate, off balance, before entering and closing the door behind him. He remained in the entryway, arms crossed, until Harry poked his head back around. "Oh, come in, you pr—"

"Let's not start with that already," Draco interrupted. "It gets ever so tiring."

"Hmm. I find it goes nicely with Earl Grey."

"As does silence."

"But that's not why you came, is it?" Potter asked.

Malfoy let out a sharp breath. "No. It's not, I suppose."

Still, they waited in silence until the tea was ready. Harry handed him a chipped teacup and Draco accepted it wordlessly. Harry rolled his eyes. "Follow me."

Leading them out the back door, Harry made his way to the edge of the cliff behind the house. As he looked out over the ocean, he took a sip of his beverage. Draco followed, and once Malfoy had had a moment to take in the view, Harry spoke again. "So, what? We're supposed to apologize now? Shake hands? Agree to ignore each other for the rest of our lives? Draw a line through London so we never cross paths?"

Malfoy sipped his tea. "I don't know. I've been instructed to move on. I suppose that means I'll have to apologize. Beyond that…" He shrugged.

"Fine. I'm listening."

Shooting him a look, Malfoy drank more of his tea. More than a minute went by before Malfoy finally huffed and said, "I'm sorry."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "That's it?"

Malfoy snorted. "Malfoys don't grovel."

"You're not even going to tell me what you're sorry for?"

"Christ, Potter. Everything. Every bloody thing." Malfoy sipped his tea. "Hmm. Usually I feel better after apologies. Turns out, not this time."

"You're such a—"

"Don't do it," Malfoy warned.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. I accept."

Malfoy looked at him.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Don't you have something you'd like to tell me now?" he prompted.

"You have tea on your chin?"

"Merlin, you are a complete and total—"

"Don't do it," Harry mocked.

"You're seriously not going to apologize?" Malfoy looked amazed. "William isn't the only one with scars, you know."

Harry nearly choked on his tea. "You cast a _Cruciatus_ at me! And I saved your arse in the Fire!"

"You're not sorry, then," Malfoy mused. "I'm not saying you can't justify your actions. All I'm asking is that you say you're sorry for slicing me open a half dozen times so I'd bleed out on the bathroom floor, drowning in toilet water and my own goddamn blood."

Harry stared out at the choppy ocean as it crashed against the rocky shore. He hated thinking of those days, and when he saw Malfoy, everything came rushing back. The apathy he'd managed to readopt in the night proved as fleeting as the tide. Swallowing hard, he breathed in the salty air, then exhaled slowly.

"Oh, fuck it all. Fine. I'm sorry. I didn't know what the curse would do. It was stupid to use it. Christ. There. Happy?"

"Apology accepted," was all Malfoy said, taking another sip of his tea.

Harry bent to pick up a rock, which he subsequently chucked over the side of the cliff.

"Does this mean we've moved on sufficiently for your wife to untwist her knickers?"

"I've no idea about the state of her knickers, Potter, but I can't imagine any situation where it would be appropriate for you to reference them." Harry rolled his eyes, as Draco continued, saying, "At any rate, I suspect it's a start."

"She's wrong anyway. I have moved on," Harry said.

"As have I."

"I mean. It's not perfect," Harry admitted, not sure why he was still talking, but doing it anyway. "I can't go out in public and they all want me to be something I'm not."

Draco snorted. "How taxing. They all want me not to be who I am. Try carrying that around. It's—"

"Exhausting," Harry finished.

"Yeah. Precisely."

On impulse, Harry threw his empty teacup over the cliff and watched it smash on the rocks below. At Malfoy's raised eyebrow, he only shrugged. "I'll buy them a new set. They're chipped anyway."

Malfoy looked at his cup, running his finger over the imperfect edge. Then, surprising Harry, he raised his arm and threw his over as well. The motion was stiff, and far less elegant than the image Malfoy seemed to wish to project, but there was something about the long lines of Malfoy's body in motion that captured his attention.

As such, he didn't watch as the cup arced through the sky and eventually shattered on against the rocks; his eyes were still on Malfoy.

**-o0o-**

Harry passed Malfoy along the main street of Tinworth one more time before he left. Malfoy had been walking arm in arm with his wife when they spotted each other, the recognition in Draco's eyes evident even half a street away. Harry had promptly stepped into a hat shop he certainly had no intention of visiting to avoid further interaction.

And that was that.

They'd moved on.

Except, perhaps, not completely. Because Harry couldn't take his eyes off the front window until Malfoy passed, and Draco seemed to peer inside the shop as he walked by.

But then, Malfoy seemed to be a hat sort of man.

And even if Harry thought they'd made eye contact for a moment, the glare of the window would have made such a thing impossible.

A few minutes later he cautiously emerged from the shop and headed down the street once more in the direction of the shop that sold kitchenware, intent on purchasing a new set of teacups for the cottage.

**-o0o-**

A week or so after returning to London, Harry decided that moving on meant returning Malfoy's wand.

It took another week before he decided he would return it in person.

It wasn't that he was lonely. Except, perhaps he was, slightly. He'd lost his friends, and his relationship with the Weasleys was now strained beyond what he could stomach. He never went out, not if he could help it. He'd gone for a haircut last month and some witch had actually burst into tears when he walked into the barbershop. Apparently, her mother had been imprisoned at one point for her blood status, but had lived thanks to Harry.

Thanks, always, to Harry.

It made him sick.

Because, if all of the good was attributed to him, shouldn't all of the bad be as well? The terrible parts, they claimed, were never his fault. But the deaths and destruction and loss were as much his as his ability to cast an _Expelliarmus_ at the right moment. He owned either both or neither.

With every thank you, with every gift, with every honor and invitation and article and witch in tears in the barbershop, he was reminded every day that the world believed it to be the former.

No wonder he kept to himself. But that didn't mean that once in a while he didn't want to talk to someone. The possibility of talking with someone who didn't believe any of the Savior bullshit—even a few bloody words—was appealing.

A few mornings later, he drank extra coffee to fortify himself and set out for Malfoy Manor.

He saw Astoria peer out the curtains of an upstairs window as he approached, but pretended he didn't. Still, he wasn't surprised when the front door was opened by Lyre before he had fully made it up the front steps.

"Mr Potter, sir. Lyre is afraid that Master Draco has often reiterated his desire to feed Mr Potter's genitals to Mistress's snake should Mr Potter appear once more on this doorstep. Therefore, Lyre implores Mr Potter to not take one step farther, as Lyre judges Master's doorstep to begin at the place where your foot is about to…Oh dear." Lyre looked up, his already large eyes even wider than normal, as Harry took the warned against step. "Oh. Oh dear." The elf began wringing his hands.

"Lyre, I have something for Malfoy; that's all. It should be enough to persuade Malfoy from—"

Ellie peeked around the doorframe with scissors in her hands. There were tears in her eyes. "Ellie is bringing the scissors for Lyre," she sniffled. "Master Draco specified he preferred dull scissors for the procedure." Now Ellie was wringing her hands, too.

Shaking his head, Harry said, "Can one of you please get Malfoy? There will be no scissors necessary this afternoon."

The elves looked at each other, communicating silently while Harry's balls hung in the balance. Ellie nodded, handed the scissors to Lyre, and then ran off as Lyre stood by, apparently guarding Harry who still stood on the doorstep. Harry made sure to stand back far enough to keep his bits out of Lyre's reach, just in case.

Finally, Malfoy approached. "All right, all right. Stand down, Lyre. We'll save the procedure for another day. Unless Potter chooses to call me a bastard again, in which case, you may proceed as planned."

Both Lyre and Harry nodded seriously.

Draco's grey eyes settled on his, reminding him of the sea by Shell Cottage. It was a moment before either of them spoke. Malfoy broke the silence, and Harry's mind took a moment to refocus when he did. "Well then?"

"I…here. This is for you." He held out the wand.

Malfoy stared at the offering, before flicking his gaze up to Harry's. "You came here to give this back to me," he stated, almost too calmly.

Shrugging, Harry pulled back his hand. "Not if you don't want it."

"That's not what I—why didn't you have your owl deliver it?"

"It's complicated."

"Is it?"

"Look, do you want it or not?" Harry asked.

"I do," Draco said, looking thoughtful. "I'm merely trying to figure out why you're giving it to me."

"Puzzle all you want," Harry said, handing it over to Malfoy, who accepted it, but tentatively. "I don't need it."

"No, I suspect not," he murmured, studying Harry's face once more. Harry couldn't look away.

"Is Master Draco needing anything further?" Lyre was looking back and forth between them, his head cocked to the side.

"Ah, no, Lyre. Not at the moment. Go see to Astoria's washing."

Harry blinked as the moment evaporated, if not from Lyre's interruption, then from the mention of Astoria's laundry. "Right. Okay. I'll be going now." He turned abruptly, confused about the inexplicable path of his thoughts and the way his heart seemed to quicken in his chest.

"Certainly…" Draco replied softly, as Harry headed toward the front gate.

He could feel Malfoy's eyes on him the entire way.

**-o0o-**

_Potter,_  
_Thank you. _  
_Sincerely,  
Draco Malfoy_  
_  
Malfoy,_  
_You're welcome._  
_-HP_  
_  
Potter,_  
_What is wrong with your owl? It drew blood!_  
_Sincerely,  
Draco Malfoy _  
_  
Malfoy,_  
_Nothing is wrong with Flynn. He was injured during the war so I took him in after Hagrid helped rehab him. He's partly blind out of one eye. His foot is…well, it doesn't bother him at least. And one wing is shorter than the other so he flies…not exactly in straight lines anymore. And as for the bald patch, that seems to be the way of it after a while. Besides, he likes to be useful. I see no need to get another._  
_-HP_  
_  
Potter,_  
_I meant what is wrong with him that he keeps trying to eat my fingers?_  
_-Draco Malfoy_  
_  
Malfoy,_  
_Oh. Right. Were you eating scones? Because those are his favourite._  
_Why do you always sign your full name? Do you think I don't know who the letters are from? They're all on your letterhead with your seal anyway._  
_-HP_  
_  
Potter,_  
_It's better than the scraps of parchment you send in return. The last one had your trouser measurements on the back. Funny, I always thought you were shorter…_  
_-Draco_  
_  
I'm not short. I slouch._  
_Um, can you remind me what the measurements are? Was wondering where those numbers had gone. I'd meant to get some new clothes._  
_-HP_  
_  
I didn't say that you were. But you do slouch. Stop trying to be smaller than you are. You're fooling no one._  
_I've made an appointment for you with my tailor. He's the best. And by that I mean he keeps his mouth shut and knows fabric the way Goblins know gold. _  
_Thursday, 10:30 a.m. 82 Dagworth Ave. Ask for Erasmus. _  
_Consider it a thank you._  
_-Draco_  
_  
There was no Erasmus! _  
_Mitchell helped me out._  
_-HP_  
_  
I know. Someone has to keep the Boy Who Slouched on his toes._  
_-Draco_

**-o0o-**

"Malfoy?" Harry opened his door a few weeks later to find Malfoy standing in the hallway. He immediately felt self-conscious about both his ratty clothes and messy flat. He couldn't decide whether to stand in the doorway blocking Malfoy's view of his mess or try to stand behind the door entirely, so Malfoy wouldn't see his too-big jeans and stained pullover. In the end, he gave up, and stood aside, opening the door widely. "Did you want to come in?"

"I sent you to get new clothes and yet this is what you're wearing?" Malfoy asked, crossing into the apartment.

"I save those clothes for the times I leave the flat," Harry said defensively.

"Which, I hear, is almost never. Besides, what were you doing in here?" Malfoy looked around, taking in the clutter.

"Er. Cleaning?" Harry said, cringing. He'd meant to, at some point. Possibly that day even. He simply hadn't started yet. "How'd you know where I live?"

"Mitchell told me," Malfoy said dismissively. "I'm sending Lyre over tomorrow. He'll not be missed for a day."

"No thanks," Harry protested, as he'd not missed the glint in Lyre's eyes when the elf wielded the dull scissors.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Fine, then. Ellie. And she'll be under strict instructions to leave your anatomy untouched. Now, here." He handed a small jar to Harry. "This is for your owl. Twice a day for seven days, apply this to his foot. Wash your hands afterwards. The substance has been known to enhance fertility in wizards and I'm guessing that's not in your plans for the next week."

Opening the jar, Harry sniffed the clear jelly-like substance, scrunching his nose in disgust and reclosing the jar quickly.

Draco snorted. "It's formulated so he won't be bothered by the application. Frankly, I'd question it if you did find it appealing."

"You made this?"

Malfoy shrugged.

"Okay. You brought this here. You're sending your house elf. You sent me to Mitchell. You're being awfully nice. Why?"

"Why, why, why. You need to add a few new questions to your repertoire. At the moment, your interrogations are quite dull." Malfoy smirked. "Besides, Potter, I think you know. After all, why'd you bring my wand back? Honestly."

"Because it was yours."

"And?" Draco prompted.

"And you're not…you don't…you're not horrible anymore. You should have it."

"I'm flattered. But why, really, did you bring it instead of simply Owling it?"

"I don't know."

Malfoy half sat on the arm of Harry's sofa. "Oh?"

"Fine. I was bored."

"Is that all?"

"Christ. You're so…" Harry growled in frustration. "Because I wanted to talk to another human being. One who didn't want anything from me for once."

"Now, why don't you ask yourself again why I came to deliver the salve to you in person."

It took him a minute to piece together Malfoy's words, but when he did, Harry looked up, surprised. "You mean. You—But. You have. You're married," he sputtered.

"Arranged, per pureblood tradition, of course. As fond as I am of Astoria, she wants something from me that I'll never be able to provide. And, as you noted, such expectations are wearying, are they not?"

"What about…friends?"

"And where are your friends, Potter?"

"Dead," he said, his mouth dry.

Malfoy hummed. "And so here we are."

Running his hand through his hair, Harry turned to head into the kitchen. "I'm putting on tea."

"Not for me," Malfoy said, standing. "I need be going. I have an appointment in town at four. But…think about it." He looked unusually vulnerable as he said it.

Swallowing, Harry led the way to the door. "Someone to talk to."

"Someone to talk to," Malfoy confirmed, stepping outside and heading down the hallway. "Oh, and remember, Ellie will be here in the morning. I'm giving her strict instructions to burn those clothes."

Harry protested, but it was to any empty hallway by the time he got the words out. Heading back inside, he shut the door behind him. _Someone to talk to. Right._

"C'mere, Flynn," Harry called sitting down at his table with the salve. "I have something for you."

The bird swooped into the room and perched atop one of his chairs. "No, not a scone this time," he said, when Flynn turned his head looking for his treat. "But I'm told you'll like this anyway." He scooped some of the stinky substance out with his finger and Flynn hooted happily. "Does that feel good?" Harry asked, applying it to the owl's foot. The bird made a contented sound that Harry heard only rarely. "I'm glad. I guess that, sometimes, good things are found in the strangest places." He finished spreading the goop and closed the jar, patting Flynn on the head before getting up to wash his hands. He sighed. "Sometimes in the form of an old enemy, even. And other times, they smell strongly like a combination of mice and crickets and can get you preggo if you're not careful."

Flynn ruffled his feathers and hooted in confirmation.

**-o0o-**

_Malfoy,_  
_Someone to talk to sounds okay. Just as long as you don't want to talk often. But sometimes. That would be—I could do that, I think._  
_Harry_  
_  
Potter,_  
_Salazar. Settle down. I've way too many obligations for any sort of regular frequency. _  
_Draco_  
_  
Fine. Let's try. Thursday at 6, Somewhere Muggle. No hexing when it goes poorly._  
_-Harry_  
_  
Friday at 7. No promises._  
_-Draco_

**-o0o-**

They met infrequently and when they did, it was often painfully awkward with lots of silences, words left unspoken and topics left unaddressed. But, they kept trying and it began to get easier as they shared experiences and looked for commonalities instead of taking pride in their differences. Their conversations were generally serious—Malfoy had always been severe, but in adulthood, it had translated into near constant intensity and somberness. With Ron, back when Ron had been in his life, they used to laugh over pints, which got to be a lot of effort towards the end. With Draco, Harry frowned over the world. And it was okay that Malfoy wasn't light-hearted. Harry'd had trouble pretending to be, with Ron, and maybe that's why they'd grown apart. He didn't have to pretend with Malfoy, because they only glowered together.

But then one time, a month or two after their first meeting, Harry lost his balance as he was approaching Malfoy on the street corner. Tripping over his Invisibility Cloak, Harry'd gone sprawling, and when he looked up, he found Malfoy working hard to keep his smirk from transforming to a grin. In the end, Draco had been unsuccessful and right there, before Harry's eyes, Draco smiled and smiled hard.

It was the first time Harry had seen it and it shocked him. It was also the most amazing smile he'd ever seen.

He stared, open mouthed, as Draco laughed—at him, with him, what did it matter?—and it felt like electricity shot through his body. His nerves in his own body zinged and fizzled. In the end, he'd had to look away. He stared at the pavement and tried to breathe.

He didn't—he hadn't—hadn't seen it coming. But there it was.

Draco Malfoy was gorgeous when he smiled, and attractive in a way that twisted the air from Harry's lungs.

Sitting back on the ground, his trousers already stained and torn from the fall, he threw his cloak back over his head and rested his head on his knees. "I need a second." He forced the words from his mouth.

"Yeah, sure," Malfoy agreed and leaned up against the nearest building to wait, his face relaxed and warmer than Harry had ever seen before.

Memories flickered through his brain as he tried to breathe, followed by flashes of images that weren't memories, but rather, a series of what-might-have-beens.

He was still sitting there trying to figure out when it had all gone wrong when Malfoy approached and lifted the Cloak from his head. Holding out a hand, Draco helped Harry up, and watched as Harry brushed the stray dirt from his knees and the gravel from his palms. Harry winced as he took a step and pain shot through his ankle. He must have turned it when he fell.

Draco was frowning again when Harry looked up, a concerned, brow-furrowing sort of frown and Harry didn't know what to do. Because now everything was different, and he had only now started to be okay with the way things were.

"Hold still," Draco said, digging in his robes for his wand. "I'll heal you."

Harry jerked back, his new feelings making his head spin. He found Malfoy attractive. He liked Malfoy, even though he still hated him. And Malfoy was married. "I don't need help," he tried to insist even as his ankle protested. "I think I should go."

"Fine," Draco said sharply. He held out his arm. "I'll side-along you."

"No, I can do it by myself," he said quickly, feeling the need to bolt but held back by his stupid ankle.

"And land on one foot? You stumble half the time when both of your legs are working."

"That's Flooing. I'm good at Apparating," he corrected.

"I'm coming with you."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Because I wanted to talk to you about something."

"It's not really a great time—"

"If you'd let me heal your—all right, all right. Never mind." Draco raised his hands in innocence and backed up.

"I'll talk to you soon, okay? I'll Owl. We can reschedule."

"I'll be away for several weeks. There really isn't another time before I go. We can go back to your flat if you prefer, but I'd really like to speak with you for a few minutes."

"Malfoy. Draco. I need to leave. And I need to be alone." He knew he was being rude, and possibly acting ridiculous, but he was hurt and confused and he felt like his heart had been turned inside out. He knew, standing there, he _knew_ that he liked Draco. He'd developed feelings without recognizing it was happening and now that he had figured it out, he couldn't forget it. The revelation was both glorious and horrible, all at once. He'd turned off that part of himself and forgotten it was there, and sure, this reminded him he was still alive. But at the same time, Draco was married so it was impossible. Hopeless. It wouldn't end well for him. Couldn't. And if one more thing didn't end well, he might have a mental breakdown.

Choosing not to feel was hard work and he was getting so very tired. To have to manage feelings about bloody Malfoy…

Draco's lips pursed. "Christ, I don't know what's up with you. You fell. What's the big deal?"

"Leave it, will you?"

Huffing dramatically, Malfoy reached into his robes and pulled out a rolled up copy of the _Prophet_, handed it to Harry, saying, "Take it or I'm following you home. Read it. We'll talk when I get back."

"I don't want to know—" Harry protested.

"Frankly, I don't really care." Draco straightened his robes. "I'll be back in two weeks, maybe sooner. I'm taking Astoria to visit her cousin in Montreal."

Without another word, Malfoy Apparated away. Harry did the same a moment later, landing awkwardly on one foot in front of his sofa despite his earlier claims of surefootedness. He tossed the newspaper onto the end table and sat down to gingerly remove the shoe from his injured ankle. "Fuck." He threw the shoe aside. "Fuck."

When he looked up, the _Prophet_ had unrolled on the table, and he couldn't help but read the bold headline that ran across the top: DEADLY GRAB FOR ELDER WAND ENDS AS FORMER DEATH EATER CLAIMS INVINCIBILITY

"Fuck!" Harry said again, yelling this time as he threw his other shoe across his room and directly at a lamp, which tipped to the floor with a crash. It shattered into a hundred pieces that lay scattered across the floor.

He ignored them, and stared, unseeing, into the darkness.

**-o0o-**

He ignored Malfoy's owls.

Then he ignored Malfoy banging on his door.

Malfoy wanted him to care about the world, but he refused to consider the possibility.

It wasn't his fight. Not this time.

**-o0o-**

No one had Firecalled him in months, which is probably why he never thought to close off his Floo.

"You fucking—"

"Hey," Harry protested. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? Didn't get the hint? I don't want to talk to you."

Draco was spitting mad, Harry could tell. Angrier than he expected, truth be told. Harry had expected Malfoy'd be miffed at being ignored, but Draco was _livid_. It wasn't until Malfoy stood by his fireplace, eyes icy cold, that Harry found out why.

"Remembered that I'm a—that I _was_ a—Death Eater, did you? Now that they're back in the news, you assume I'm one of them. Is it that you don't want to be seen with me now? Or that you think I'll run back to the Dark Lord's old gang and share your little secrets? Fuck you, Harry Potter! I've changed and if you don't trust me now, then what the fuck are we doing?"

Now Harry was getting angry too. Stood up from his chair and walked right over to get in Draco's face. "You're out of your bloody mind. This has nothing to do with the fact that you were a Death Eater. Christ, Malfoy. Of course I know you're changed. Although you're right that I have no idea what the fuck we're doing. You come barging into my home after I've made it perfectly clear that—"

"Why then," Malfoy said, staring at him. "Tell me why you won't answer my owls."

"Now it's you with all the questions. Merlin." Harry turned away. "It's not that I don't trust you. I only…I mean, what the fuck do you want me to do? You drop off that newspaper and then—"

"No; I wanted to talk about that article, but you wouldn't give me a chance!"

"Fine," Harry shouted, turning back to Draco, who stood, arms crossed, in the middle of the room. He looked bloody attractive doing it, too, which only further pissed off Harry. "I wasn't in the mood to talk. But what if we had? What the fuck am I supposed to do about it? Some fucking Death Eater playing at God again, gathering the gang for old time's sake. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? It's not my war. I'm done. I did my part." Harry exhaled roughly. "This is why I don't read the news or listen to the wireless. I don't want to know. It's not my job, this time. I can't—I won't do it again."

"Salazar, Harry. I wasn't asking you to go to war! All I wanted was to talk about it!"

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face as his anger deflated. "I don't want to. I'm done. Someone else can fix it this time." Because he was fucking exhausted.

"That's the thing. You…know things, about what happened before. Things that no one else knows. We need to stop this Wand madness before it escalates further. Do you know someone cast a _Morsmordre_ the other day? Maybe you know something that can help."

"There is no 'we,' Malfoy. I want nothing to do with this. If you want to fix it, be my guest."

"Then you'd better put on some tea. Because you're going to tell me every fucking thing you know because that's the only way the rest of us stand a chance."

Harry hesitated.

Draco met his gaze, his eyes burning. "That is, unless you don't trust me."

"You don't understand. No one else knows most of it. I told people things in that past, and now they're dead because of that knowledge. My best friends _died_ because of it."

"Okay, I'll put on the tea," Malfoy said, ignoring his protests and heading into Harry's kitchen uninvited. Harry trailed after him and watched Malfoy navigate his space. Once it was ready, Draco took their cups to the table and commanded Harry to sit. Once he had, Draco took a deep breath. "That's not why your friends died. I'm guessing they died because of their own choices. I know Granger did. That was her choice. She's not stupid. It wasn't an accident."

"You don't understand," Harry protested, frowning at the steam rising from his tea.

"No, I don't. Not completely. So why don't you tell me." Draco leaned in and rested on of his thin wrists on the table, halfway to Harry.

Looking up, he studied Draco's face, searched his eyes. It was tempting, to share the burden. Secrets were exhausting.

"Harry," Draco said. "Spit it out."

Harry took a sip of tea, and then another, and somehow, in between them, out the story came.

**-o0o-**

Barely twenty-four hours later and Malfoy was pounding on his door.

"What?" Harry asked, opening it. Draco's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wild. It took a minute for Harry's tongue to work properly again as he took him in. "I've told you everything. What else do you want to—" He was cut off as Malfoy strode inside and thrust a newspaper at him.

As Harry tried to give it back, Draco said "Oh, look at it, will you?"

Harry huffed but unrolled it and scanned the headline.

DEATH EATERS REUNITING AS MASTER OF ELDER WAND GAINS POWER

He refolded the paper and handed it back. "So?"

"So?" Draco balked. "So? That's all you—don't you get it? It's happening again."

Harry shrugged and sat down. "Told you. Not my problem."

"Salazar, Harry. Look. What you told me…it explains a lot. A lot of what I saw and overheard but never understood. There were other Death Eaters who knew about the Horcruxes. I don't think they made them before, but they know how to do it, and now they're probably desperate and stupid enough to—"

"Let some naïve seventeen-year-old take care of it. I'm not playing."

"It's not a _game_! If this continues, we'll be at war before long."

Harry laughed harshly. "I'm aware of that. But you know what? This time, I don't care. I won't fight their war for them."

"You've changed."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I have. And I'm okay with that. Because I want to live to see thirty. And if I have to bloody immigrate to Canada to do it, I will. I refuse to feel bad about that." He took a deep breath. "You insist you've changed. I think you're probably right, and that's great and all, but maybe it's time to stop apologizing for all your past mistakes and do the right thing instead. There's nothing you don't know at this point. I'd have no advantage that you wouldn't have. And I'm no more important than anyone else determined to stop this madness. If you want to take action to make things right, then do it. You can be their bloody Savior. I sure as hell won't be."

"Harry, listen to me. Last time, I made the wrong choice. I hid when I could and didn't act when I should have. I have to live with that, but I won't make the same mistake again. I'm asking you to help me fix this," Draco said. He looked so earnest and it was killing Harry, but he couldn't and wouldn't.

"Sorry," Harry said, turning away. "Why should I care if the whole world goes to hell? I saved it once and mine has anyway."

Malfoy put his head in his hands. "I need your help. Between the two of us, I think we can—"

"There is no two of us," Harry said pointedly. "We just talk, sometimes. That's all."

"I didn't mean anything—"

"Go home to your wife, Draco. Maybe she'll stand by your side."

Draco's eyes shot up to Harry's and he looked surprised by Harry's comment. "She's in Montreal with her cousins. I left her there, where she'll remain for her safety until this is over."

"You must love her very much," he said, trying not to sound bitter.

"No more than you loved Ginevra, when you made the same choice in the last war."

"I didn't love her." The words fell from Harry's lips before he realized what he was saying. He blinked when he realized Malfoy was watching his mouth.

Draco cleared his throat and met his gaze again. "So you know the truth of it then. If I truly loved Astoria, and she me, I couldn't have left her there and she wouldn't have stayed."

Harry looked away and tried not to hear the details even as they were offered.

Draco crossed the room and gestured to a chair. "May I?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine."

"I told you my marriage was arranged."

Harry wordlessly grabbed a cushion and clutched it against his chest. He didn't really want to talk about this with Draco. He mostly wanted to forget his heart existed, and it was hard with Draco around and even harder when a topic like Draco's bloody _marriage_ was the subject of discussion. The thought made him ache; he wasn't a fan of pain. How had it gotten this bad when he wasn't paying attention? He _hated_ Draco.

"Harry, look at me."

Harry glanced up, but only quickly, because looking _hurt_.

"I'm gay," Draco admitted and Harry died a little inside. "I'll never love Astoria—not as I'm supposed to. And she wants children and I can't do that for her either."

Harry couldn't breathe. "Why are you telling me this?" he choked out.

"You shared all of your secrets." Draco was studying him; he could feel the intense gaze, even as he stared at his hands.

"Not…" He risked looking up again and, as he expected, found Draco's stormy eyes watching him intently. "Not all of them."

Draco's mouth was pinched shut, strained, and Harry could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "Right. So you're…"

"Also. Yeah."

"But."

"But you're—"

"Married. Yes."

_Fuck it all_. Life was a goddamn bitch. Crueler sometimes than Harry had ever thought possible. Growling, Harry tossed the cushion and the moment aside and stood. "I think you should go. I don't know what you want from me."

Eyes narrowing, Draco replied, "You know exactly what I want from you. I want you to stand up again, because that's who you are, and because it's the right thing to do."

"Haven't I sacrificed enough?"

Draco stood, too. "It doesn't matter. The wizarding world needs you again. Needs your experience and your knowledge and your leadership. How many more people are going die because you want to keep hiding under that bloody Cloak instead of stepping up? Salazar, your entire _life_ now is spent in hiding. Is that any kind of way to—"

"Get. _Out_." Harry demanded. "How dare you—"

"I won't be back," Malfoy warned. "You've made your choice and I've made mine. I have a war to stop. I don't have time for this bullshit." He stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

**-o0o-**

The Ministry was on the verge of collapse as the underground movement of Death Eaters swelled to accommodate all of those who had been punished since the last war, including many who had inexplicably been released from Azkaban years before their sentences were set to end. The Master of the Elder wand, something Voldemort had never even managed, wasted no time gathering resources and power as he annihilated any witch or wizard who didn't fall in line behind him.

And Harry didn't care. Forced himself not to.

He did, however, decide that he'd give Draco the only thing he had left that might help. He'd loan him the Invisibility Cloak until it was over. The thought of giving it up made Harry exceedingly uncomfortable, but it was the only thing he could do while doing nothing at all. Besides, it was only temporary; he'd make sure Draco understood that, but it might keep Draco alive at some point, and since Harry had gone and developed stupid bloody pointless feelings…well, it seemed the thing to do. He kicked the edge of his table in frustration. Fuck this life, he cursed. Fuck it all.

He grabbed his coat and folded up the Cloak, tucking it into his pocket. He hadn't spoken to Draco or seen him since their last fight, but although he was still angry, this was more important.

He Apparated to the Manor gates.

Lyre answered the door but Harry pushed right past him.

"Draco, where are you?" He walked quickly through the first rooms he passed, stopping only to gaze inside to look for Malfoy. As Lyre trailed after him, protesting his entry and threatening to retrieve the scissors.

Appearing silently behind him as Harry gazed into a sitting room, Draco scared the shit out of him, making Harry jump in response to the simple, "Yes?"

He turned to see Draco dressed casually, his hair damp and his skin pinked. He must have recently bathed, Harry realized, and he was reminded again that life was exceedingly unfair. Grinding his teeth, Harry said, "I have something for you."

"Not an apology, I take it?" Draco muttered as Harry dug into his pocket. "Lyre, please go finish straightening the library."

Harry shot him a look, ignoring the elf's departure. "Fuck you. And here." He held out the Cloak.

The intensity in Draco's gaze was almost too much, as Malfoy reached out to take the material from Harry. "You're giving this to me."

"You might need it." He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "It's only a loan."

"I see." Draco unfolded the material and studied it. Unexpectedly, though, Draco balled it back up and returned it Harry. "I don't want it."

"But—"

"No offense, but these bloody Hallows don't seem to do much good for the ones wielding them."

"The Wand and the Stone aren't good, obviously, but the Cloak…I mean, I'm fine."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Fuck you. I am," Harry insisted.

"Be that as it may, I'll pass on the Cloak. It seems it's up to me to fix things, and I don't intend to hide this time."

Harry shoved the Cloak back into his coat pocket. "Whatever you say. I'll go then."

"Wait," Draco said, reaching out to Harry, surprising them both in doing so. He dropped his hand quickly as recognition crossed his face, awkwardly folding his arms over his chest in the next breath, seemingly to prevent the arm from misbehaving again. He cleared his throat. "Tell me…tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this."

Harry laughed harshly. "Infiltrate their party and take the Wand for your own? Get help from the Continent? Turn back time?" He looked up at the ceiling for answers that would never be there. "Practice your _Expelliarmus_ and pray to Merlin that you're exceedingly lucky? That's all I know. Maybe it's not even worth it anyway. Seems there's always going to be a madman in the wings, ready to rise up at the first chance. What's the point in fighting one, when the next is right there waiting for you to finish?"

"You've spent too much time with that Cloak. The Boy who was Afraid to Live. I don't buy it. That's not you speaking. I know you—the real you—and this isn't you."

Harry shrugged. "It is now."

"I don't believe it," Draco said, his arms falling to his sides as he came closer. "I've watched you for too long. You're too stubborn. Too determined. Too honorable. Too bloody Gryffindor."

"Maybe I used to be. But maybe that stupid hat was right; I'd have made an excellent Slytherin. Because my interests now lie in self-preservation. Surely _you_ can understand that."

"Bullshit. You're here, aren't you? Trying to help me, the only way you think you can."

"You're wrong. You don't know me. I was only trying to—" Harry looked away.

"To help. I know." Draco stepped closer still.

Harry shook his head. "No, I…You want too much from me."

"You're right," he said, his voice rough. "I want way too much."

The fire in Draco's eyes made Harry's heart pound in his chest, and he wasn't sure what they were talking about anymore. He held his breath as Draco leaned in closer.

"I want…everything," Draco said, his voice low. "I want everything from you." Draco reached out and trailed his hand along the side of Harry's face and jaw.

Harry made a slight strangled noise. "It's imposs—"

Draco kissed him anyway, his mouth hot and wet, the kiss hungry and full of a wild desperation. Instinctively, Harry found himself grasping at Draco's shirt as he lost himself in the taste and warmth of Draco's mouth. Draco's hands were on his neck, cupping his cheek, and the needy intensity of his touch made Harry tremble. It was everything that he had wanted and nothing he could have and it was wonderful and terrible and he couldn't stop. There was nothing else in the world than their frantic kissing, the anxious joining of their lips, and the solid form of Draco in his clutch.

Until he wasn't there any longer. When Draco pulled away, the sound of anguish he made caused Harry's lungs to deflate and he felt himself struggling for air, because with one look at Draco's face, he knew what was coming. This wasn't the Malfoy he'd known in school, who was quick to take advantage and who ignored the rules and blurred the lines between right and wrong to suit his whims. This Malfoy wanted to stand tall and stand his ground and be _good_.

It was going to hurt, badly, the loss of something he barely had.

Sure enough, Draco turned from him, his voice strained, and muffled partly as he ran his hands over his face. "I can't do this. I shouldn't. I'm trying to do things the right way now. And this. Fuck, Harry. As much as I want it…Want you. And I do. Fuck, but I do. I tried to ignore it, but I can't. It doesn't matter what I want. I'm bloody married. I can't."

"I know," Harry choked, as his heart broke into pieces. "You're good now. And I'm the bad one."

"You're not bad," Draco protested, turning to him, pain in his eyes.

"Careful," Harry warned, only half joking. "Or you'll start to believe those sorts of lies. You know better. You aren't afraid to separate the truth from the bullshit, and I hate you for it, because I am afraid to even look. It's why I hate you even as I love…I could have…_Fuck_." Harry pounded his fist against the wall. "When is it my turn? In what life do I finally get a happy ending?"

He wasn't going to take Draco down with him. He had to get out of there. He turned away and gathered himself as best as he was able, praying he wouldn't Splinch himself. "Goodbye," he said firmly. "I won't bother you again."

Then he Apparated out of the room, not even caring where he ended up.

**IV.**

"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Draco offered as McGonagall motioned toward a chair.

"Have a seat, Mr Malfoy. I've read your proposal and considered it at length."

"I can't think of any other way to fix things," he started, when McGonagall cut him off.

"That does not mean that your own answer is correct. A Time Turner is a dangerous tool. Most of them were destroyed, and that's a good thing in my opinion."

"It _would_ work, though," he said. "It's been used before for less."

"Indeed it has. Indeed it has," she murmured. "Still, the dangers of invoking such magic are significant, the risks high and the price could be steep."

"Steeper than another war?"

"Perhaps." She looked over her glasses at him.

"We can't let it happen again, not if there's a way to stop it. I know I can do it."

"Why are you sure you would even be able to manage it? You would need to be in a position to influence multiple people in ways that may be beyond your reach, especially given your antagonistic relationships with them."

"All I'd have to do is make sure Ronald Weasley doesn't get his hands on the Wand."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"I know where it is," he said.

She stilled. "I see."

"Harry told me. He knows things that make a difference, but he won't act, so it seems I have to."

"Mr Potter has shown little interest in being involved with nearly anything since the war, and, while unfortunate for many reasons, that is his right."

"I know." Draco groaned in frustration. "At least Potter—Harry—trusted me enough to tell me what he knows. So even if he doesn't help, I know enough to make sure Ronald never gets his hands on that wand," he added fiercely.

She studied him and he made sure to meet her gaze. "Your relationship with Mr Potter has finally changed, it seems. I wondered when it would."

Draco looked away as regret swept over him. He should never have given in and got married. They'd told him it was the right thing to do and he'd listened—yet another time when he should have ignored the pressure of those around him and trusted his gut. He'd finally learned that lesson but at a cost that would forever torment him. Unless…

McGonagall seemed to read his thoughts. Maybe she actually had. "I won't ask for details, but I will remind you that you are a married man."

"I was married shortly after Ronald Weasley was killed. But I admit that I would like to call off the engagement if I go back."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "The truth, please, Mr Malfoy: Are your reasons for offering to undertake this task self-serving?"

"Only in that I would know better than to accept an arranged pureblood marriage when I could never love my wife the way a husband ought. Because that hasn't been fair for either of us. She actually loves Theo Nott. Letting her go would be another small wrong righted."

She nodded. "And you truly believe you could…stop the wand from reaching the wrong hands?"

"I know where to find the bloody wand and I'll retrieve it before Weasley thinks to. I'll break it into a hundred bloody pieces and burn them all."

"What will you do for the year before your timelines merge once more? You must not be seen. It would be too dangerous to stay here."

"I imagine I'll spend it scattering the wand ashes across the far corners of the earth. I've always wanted to see—"

"Please," McGonagall interrupted. "I wish that you would not give me any further details. I should not like to have any knowledge of any temptation in this world greater than a lemon sherbet." She rooted around in her desk drawer and pulled out a tiny metal tin. "Would you like one?"

Draco shook his head, eyebrow raised, as she helped herself. "Albus left ever so many. I've developed a bit of a taste for them over the years," she said. "Now then, and speaking of delicious temptation, why do you think you would not attempt to wield the wand as Ronald Weasley did?"

He recoiled in response. Because imagining it made him sick. Because everyone who touched it died horribly. And because he'd witnessed first-hand the horror of one man's search for invincibility and immortality as evil swept through his childhood, took over his home, and ruined his family. He understood why the wand would appeal to some, but to him, it was more of an invitation to follow in the Dark Lord's trajectory and he wanted nothing less.

"I hate that bloody stick and everything it represents. All three of the Hallows should probably be destroyed, but I believe it is within my reach to eliminate this one at the very least. The others don't seem to have the same power to cause mass tragedy."

Taking another of the sweets from the tin, McGonagall wordlessly popped it into her mouth and put the tin away in her desk, before opening the drawer below it.

"So they weren't all destroyed," Draco said, in awe in spite of himself, watching as she pulled out a different box and opened it. "I mean, I'd hoped they weren't. I knew there must have been one at Hogwarts. I couldn't imagine all of them were gone."

She gave him a look. "Of course not. The only thing Albus loved more than sweets was tinkering with magical trinkets and tools. He magically strengthened this particular one at some point—theoretically, one could go back a full year now, which, as you know, is approximately what would be required." She took out the Time Turner. "You do realize no one has ever gone back that far before, though, nor attempted to influence so much."

"I know," he said, eyeing it. "But I think it is a risk worth taking, don't you?"

"Jeopardizing your own life?" she asked.

He took a deep breath and thought of Harry and all of the others who had offered their lives in the past. At one time, the possibility of such sacrifice would have sent him running in the opposite direction. But there was no one else who knew enough to do it besides Harry, and it seemed like it was his turn to make the right decision. "I suppose I don't see a choice."

"So let me verify that I have this correct. You will use the Time Turner to go back, destroy the wand, and call off your engagement, remaining far away from Britain for nearly a full year without any contact."

"It will work," he said.

"It is incredibly risky," she said pointedly. "Who knows how everything will play out with even these changes. I truly hate that we must even consider it. But I agree that it seems you are in a unique position to fix a few matters and end this trouble before it began." She frowned at the Time Turner. "You do realize, of course, that Mr Potter will have no recollection of your changed relationship. Nothing that happened in the last year will be reliable—any number of things will change."

He nodded. He'd thought of that. He and Harry would never cross paths at Hermione's funeral because—if all went as planned—there wouldn't be a funeral. Instead, they'd have to start over after the year had passed and the timelines merged once more. He knew he had to try, though, because now that he'd had a chance to taste Harry's mouth, he couldn't imagine living his life in such a way that he never got to do so again.

"If I don't get rid of those Cornish Pixies for you the next time around, I promise I'll come back and take care of them after," he joked.

She pursed her lips. "You'd better, Mr Malfoy. I'll hold you to that. Now, here, take this before I think better of it." She gave him the Time Turner. "Be careful. Use it wisely and take care of yourself. Make sure the Elder Wand is never found again."

He nodded once and stood to take his leave.

"As Albus used to say, time is a mysterious thing. 'Powerful, and when meddled with, dangerous.' Don't be seen; you know the rules. And return it to my desk well before this date."

He nodded again, "I will."

"I'd say about twelve turns should do it." She cleared her throat and stood. "I'm proud of you, Mr Malfoy. Good luck."

"Thank you," he murmured as he closed the door behind him.

It was time to rewrite the story.

**V.  
**

Harry paused and gazed down at the slumbering children surrounding him, his own, along with Rose and Hugo, who were spending the night while Ron and Hermione celebrated their anniversary. He tucked in the little bodies that had become untucked before silently leaving the room.

The rest of the story was unnecessary; after all, they were living it.

With a soft whisper, his _Nox_ turned off the lights, and he stepped from the room…directly into Draco's arms.

"I didn't know you were listening," Harry admitted, surprised to find his husband in the near darkness.

"You've never told them that story before," was all Draco said, brushing Harry's hair back from his forehead and pulling the door to the children's room shut most of the way behind them.

"No," Harry agreed, his voice rough. "I haven't."

"Come here," Draco pulled him into an embrace.

"I overheard them earlier—talking about the Hallows. Joking about what they'd do. Must have heard about 'em from Teddy." Harry mumbled, burying his head in Draco's neck. "I know the wand's gone now, but…" He sighed. "I don't want them to make the same mistakes, you know?"

"They won't," Draco comforted him, kissing the side of his head. "They can't."

Harry knew Draco did understand completely, perhaps even better than he did himself. For him, the re-emergence of the Hallows was a close call. But while Draco had told him what had happened and even showed him a few memories from that time in the Pensieve, Draco was the only one who remembered actually living through the deaths and dark times.

He was momentarily envious of parents with fewer hard stories to pass on. Parents who could read tales like _The Three Brothers_ and have them remain simply that—fairy tales. Parents who themselves would never be the main characters in stories that were larger than life.

Draco tilted Harry's head up for a kiss.

"I love you so much," Harry murmured.

Draco smiled; it was the same smile that had always knocked him off his feet. "I love you, too. Let's go to bed."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I'm tired," he admitted. "Maybe tomorrow you could show me our first kiss again—the part where you kiss me like it's the end of the world, only letting me go so you can run off and save it."

"I should never have gotten you that Pensieve for Christmas," Draco teased, his eyes shining. "Also, you have a very twisted idea about what's romantic. But yes. We could do that tomorrow after Ronald and Hermione come reclaim their spawn."

Harry smacked him lightly on the arm, but Draco just pulled him tightly against his body. Harry looked up at him in the dim lighting.

"You know," Draco whispered after a moment, running his finger around the collar of Harry's shirt, his breath hot against Harry's ear. "I think the ending to that story might be inappropriate for children anyway."

Harry couldn't help it as the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice husky.

"Mmmhmm." Draco trailed his lips along Harry's jaw.

Harry backed him up against the wall and kissed him desperately, claiming the mouth of the man he loved beyond all reason.

"Our story…it won't end for a long, long time, will it?" he murmured after releasing Draco's lips.

"Not for a long, long, _long_ time. There's way too much live for. But don't worry; it has a happy ending. I looked ahead."

Harry snorted. "You're such a—"

"Oh, let's not start that," Draco teased.

"You're right," Harry whispered, kissing him and nipping slightly at his lip. "I have a better idea. Take me to bed?"

"You got it, Boy who is All Mine." Draco tugged playfully on his shirt in the direction of their room. Harry grabbed his hand and followed eagerly, only letting go when Draco peeled off their clothing.

They fell into bed together, entwined as one with all of the passion and fire that had characterized them from the beginning, but tempered now with familiarity, with love, and with enough promises to fill the many, many white blank pages before them.

A few feet away an Invisibility Cloak lay folded up in the corner of a drawer at the bottom of Harry's bureau, entirely forgotten. It hadn't been used in ages, and wouldn't be thought of again for many years to come.

**-o0o-**

_And so, even though Death searched for the third friend for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when the third friend had attained a great age that he took the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his sons. Then, greeting Death as an old friend, he went with him gladly, and, as equals, they departed this life._

**Fin. **


End file.
